


The Way It Goes

by TerresDeBrume



Series: Standing on tiptoes [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Human, Dancer!Loki, F/M, M/M, Musicians, Offscreen character death, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is a ballet dancer juggling between two (or three, or possibly four) different lives.<br/>Tony Stark is an engineer's son who goes into theatric props to piss his father off.</p><p>Then they meet, and worlds collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/6420.html?thread=11659284#t11659284) on LJ.
> 
> Basically, I just took the idea of musician/dancer Loki and ran away with it, hence this weird thing.  
> Note: this is still a WIP, and the LJ thread is way ahead, but this one is cleaner and better cut, so you just chose whatever suits your fancy :)

## Loki

The first time they meet, it goes like this: Loki trips (again) on the hem of his (too long and ridiculous) black cape, and he doesn’t bother biting the (very long, varied and energetic) string of expletives that come to his mouth about the (mother-coveting, incestuous) guy who designed this (life-endangering monstrosity of a) costume. It’s not that he enjoys taking other people’s work apart (much) but he is supposed to dance in this, not stand still, and he’d like to do so without risking breaking his neck at every step, thank you very much. So he (loudly) voices his disagreement with the (very poor) artistic choices and (very calmly) shakes out of his garb, stating that he will not come near the stage again until something is done about his outfit.

 

And just like that, Tony Stark enters his life.

 

## Tony

It’s not so much that Tony has a secret passion for the logistic of stage costuming and more that he wants to piss his father off that got him into his latest project.

Quite honestly, he likes machinery and wire circuits much more than he likes fabrics, but he doesn’t like the idea of spending all his life ruling an empire of weaponry he really, really doesn’t care about (he does care about said empire’s current ruler though, enough so that he’s gotten himself into a two years apprenticeship just to annoy him).

Anyway, the point is somehow, Tony has landed himself in this semi-underground project, a sort of modern ballet that may or may not be a gender-swapped version of the _Swan Lake_.

 

If he is to be quite honest, he’s got to admit it’s not a bad thing in itself.

He gets to meet lots of people who never heard his father’s name, for one. People here don’t expect anything of him (which makes it easy to impress the props department with his knowledge of electrical wiring and his idea to make better effects without exploding their budget).

 

And then there’s this weird (if important, as he will realize later) night when the guy who landed the role of the Prince Swan trips on his cape and (cliché of all clichés) lands directly in his arms.

There is a long, loud sentence involving someone who sucks on cocks and their mother (or possibly their mother’s cock, it’s not like Tony’s really paying attention) and then the guy rights himself. He’s got a good three inches on Tony and looks pale, probably running low on sleep like everyone here. His dark (maybe black but it’s hard to tell in this light) hair is pushed back on his neck… his eyes are still hidden though, concealed by shadows until someone turns a spot and Tony can see exactly how green they are.

 

“Holy fucking God,” he breathes out.

“Not on the first date, and you may call me Loki, since we will apparently work together a lot in the upcoming days.”

 

Right.

 

That’s right, Tony’s supposed to make him a new costume. Why he was chosen remains a mystery to him, but he was and now he’s both thankful for it and nervous at the thought of somehow fucking it up.

He is half lost in concepts, calculating how to make the thing as swan-like as possible without impeding movement or hiding too much of Loki, and then how to adapt the costume into something that is background-dancers-suitable, when he realizes Loki is staring at him with an eyebrow raised.

 

“Yeah,” he says, “okay. In that case, you can call me Tony.”

 

Loki nods but he doesn’t smile, and Tony feels a rush of adrenaline at working with someone expecting something of him that no-one ever thought to ask before.

Tony isn’t really fond of fabric or costumes, but this Loki is issuing a challenge here, and he’s damned if he’s going to let it go unanswered.

 

## Thor

For Thor, things start like this: he comes home from the gym on a Monday night, expecting to find the usual Monday night setting: Loki defrosting pizza and cursing their ancient microwave for being inefficient, music gently pulsing in the kitchen while Fenrir, happy to be home after a long day of sitting in the corner of a theatre, lounges on the carpet between the sofa and the TV.

 

What Thor finds instead is an empty apartment and four boxes of Chinese takeout waiting for him on the kitchenette table, along with a note:

 

 _Costume problem potentially solved. Emergency measuring tonight. Put boxes two minutes in the microwave. I trust you not to burn anything down, do not disappoint me_.

 

Thor checks the boxes and smiles when he sees it’s all noodles: Loki didn’t forget it’s the only Chinese food Thor really likes.

He re-heats his meal (without burning anything) and eats it while watching a football game on the TV (normally, it would have been Loki’s turn to pick the program, but he’s not there and Thor enjoys not having to watch one of those boring movies tonight) and waiting for his brother.

 

By the time he finally goes to bed, well past midnight, Loki still hasn’t come home.


	2. The Coffee Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In wich Tony and Loki are not morning persons.

## Loki

Two or three nights after the first measuring session, Tony Stark comes back to the theatre with several sheets of paper rolled in his fist and the face of someone who just swallowed a lot of sour lemon.

 

“Bad day,” Loki says as he comes down from the stage, and it’s not really a question.

“ _Au contraire, mon cher_ ,” Stark replies bitterly, “who doesn’t love to spend the day being told how much they suck, uh?”

 

Loki represses a sympathetic wince because, honestly, he _so_ doesn’t want to go there, with anyone. Instead of commenting, he gestures for Tony to spread the sketches he brought on a nearby plank that’s used as a table for now.

 

“I’m impressed by your drawing skills,” he says with an eyebrow raised. “I almost expected stick figures.”

“Ha, fucking ha. Anybody ever told you how funny you’re not?”

“I’ll have you know, there are people who know me only as Silvertongue.”

“A very interesting nickname, if you ask me.”

“Not on the first date, Stark.”

“I thought it was Tony? And besides, it’s not our first date.”

“Because it isn’t a date at all.”

“Oh come on,” Tony insists (and Loki has to force his lips not to curve upward), “there’s low light, music, we’re both sweaty… looks like the end of a date to me.”

“Am I to assume your dates often include the presentation of… _what is that_?”

 

Loki pulls the sheet of paper away from Tony before the other man can make a grab for it, and he looks at the design with what he can only guess is a horrified expression.

 

“Nothing,” Tony says.

“I hope for your sake that you don’t intend to make this into an actual outfit, because I am warning you that I will _not_ wear a helmet with goat horns!”

“It’s nothing, okay wasn’t supposed to be here, just give it _back_!”

 

But Loki, used to chasing the air for his possessions (who wouldn’t be, after a childhood spent with Thor and his friends?) escapes him once again and hops effortlessly on the stage, for once relishing the idea of being the youngest.

 

Half an hour later, they collapse on the stairs at the back of the theatre until Coulson, the choreograph, calls for Loki to _stop behaving like a badly trained pup and get your ass down here, Laufeyson!_

 

“See you next round,” Tony says cockily.

 

## Tony

In Tony’s eyes, it starts with this: one morning, after yet another late business dinner with his father (and frankly, _yuk_ ) he simply forgets to wake up.

 

This leads to preparing for the outside world later than usual, which leads to popping at the coffee shop a good five hours later than usual, at about two, to be precise. Tony hasn’t taken time to shave, because he’s not going to the office today (he’s going to be lectured again anyways, he might as well indulge in a spontaneous holiday while he’s at it) and he kept to glasses instead of contacts for the same reasons.

The world is still blurry though, but he can’t quite decide if it is due to the remnants of saliva on the glass (thank you Jarvis) or to the pounding headache that is currently howling for caffeine between his temples.

 

Tony spots the tall figure in the queue before his vision has finished adjusting, and he produces his best non-caffeinated approximation of a smile as he approaches the dancer.

 

“Didn’t know pet wolves were back in fashion,” he says in his customary (sort of) morning economy of word (and soft voice. Wouldn’t want to upset that headache.)

“Starting a trend,” Loki replies in the same fashion, dark sunglasses hiding the superior half of his face. “Didn’t think you’d go for a pure breed.”

“Great Danes are as friendly as any bastards, I assure you,” Tony replies good-naturedly. “By the way, Jarvis, this is Loki and uh….”

“Fenrir.”

“Is he really a wolf then?”

“Utonagan dog. Looks the same, trains easier.”

 

Tony nods as though he were a great expert on dogs (when, in fact, Jarvis was more or less dumped on him a month ago and he’s been improvising his whole education ever since. He counts himself lucky that the dog seems to like him well enough to refrain from gnawing on every surface available, but he honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do when it grows more than it already has.)

Tony and Loki both stay silent as they wait for the queue to move toward the counter, as the shop is apparently packed, and settle to watch their respective dogs size each other. Jarvis, adorable pup that he is, has apparently decided that a nap was in order, while Fenrir (who is a full grown animal) hovers restlessly around his master, occasionally stopping to nuzzle at Jarvis’ ribs, or sniff the hem of Tony’s pants, his tail curiously wagging the whole time.

 

Tony swallows a chuckle when he realizes that Loki and himself are acting in the exact opposite from their companions: while the dancer hasn’t moved a single muscle from his model-like posture (which, Tony might add, he manages to make look entirely natural, how unfair is that?) Mr. Stark junior has been tapping a steady rhythm on the floor and along his thigh.

Nobody seems to notice, however, and Loki graciously lets him step forward when it is finally their turn to order.

 

“Good morning Miss Potts, beacon of my day,” he says in his usual flirtatious tones. “You look even brighter than usual, did you do something with your hair?”

“What can I get you Mr. Stark,” Pepper asks, directing a roll of her eyes to the queue behind Tony (he doesn’t mind, she’s got to make the crowd keep their patience) and Tony smiles:

“So dismissive, didn’t you even miss me this morning?”

“I was too busy relishing an improvised holiday… which you just crashed, by the way. What can I get you?”

“My usual, with cheesecake and your number.”

“Phone numbers of the employees aren’t on the card, Mr. Stark. Are you sitting in today?”

“Yes, but I’m disappointed.”

“You’ll survive, Mr. Stark. Next please!”

 

Tony chuckles, invigorated as he is by a good (sort of) morning flirt and goes by the second counter to wait on his drink (Grande black coffee, extra strong).

 

“Hi,” he hears Pepper say when Loki steps up to the till, “Grande mocha, extra cream, extra sugar and sprinkles?”

“Sit-in with a brownie and the morning paper,” Loki agrees, and Tony turns back toward the till, where Fenrir’s tail is wagging happily as Pepper scratches his head.

“Didn’t know you were a regular,” Tony says when Loki joins him at the waiting counter.

“Obviously, we don’t live with the same hours.”

“Obviously,” Tony agrees as they both retrieve their beverages.

 

He follows Loki upstairs to a small stall he never saw (usually, when he sits-in, he stays at street level) and they sit next to a window with view on the park while Jarvis settles down at Tony’s feet and Fenrir sits next to Loki’s leg, looking around curiously.

 

“So, Tony continues after they’ve both taken a sip of their drinks and Loki had enough time to look at his newspaper properly, “this is breakfast to you?”

“Yes,” Loki answers, pushing his sunglasses up his nose to rest on his slicked-back hair. “I perform after the rehearsals so it’s better to have weird hours than lack sleep.”

“Ah, you’re the kind of guy who cares about his health a lot.”

“A dancer is essentially a professional sportsman. Of course we care about our health.”

“Hence the overly rich drink.”

“I have a fast metabolism, and I exercise more than enough to make up for it.”

 

Tony nods in concession, and asks:

 

“You said you performed. What kind of show?”

“Depends of the nights,” Loki shrugs. “Usually I just play. Some nights I sing, others I dance. I like to think of myself as a polyvalent artist.”

“I can imagine,” Tony says. “And where is it you do that?”

“Do you want to see it?” Loki asks, sounding almost surprised.

“Why not,” Tony shrugs. “Could be interest… Damnit Jarvis! Why is it every time you wake up you feel the need to pee on my shoes?!”

 

Across the table, Loki is chuckling into his drink, and Fenrir moves from his spot to nuzzle at Jarvis’ face, as though to console him from his master’s heated words.

It takes a while but eventually Tony manages to mostly empty his shoes, even though he knows now that he’ll have to go back home and change them.

 

“You should carry him,” Loki says later when they retrieve their respective jackets (and the leather really _does_ suit him), “Great Dane pups don’t react well to over-exercising. Gives them joints problems.”

“Oh. Well.” Tony sighs and lifts and eyebrow at Jarvis: “You ruined my shoes already, what’s a shirt in comparison, right?”

“Just be happy it’s not solid,” Loki tells him, and Tony scrunches his nose.

 

They have to part ways when they come out of the shop, each having their own appointments (even though Tony is mostly planning to ignore his).

 

“So, about this show of yours?” Tony asks before Loki walks away.

“We’re in hiatus right now, but I’ll let you know when we pick it up if you want.”

“Great,” Tony approves. “See you tomorrow for the fitting then.”

 

Loki nods, with a slight curve to his lips, and then he jogs across the street, Fenrir dutifully following without even the slightest need to tug on his leash.

 

Later, when his father reaches the five-minutes mark (paragraph three, point b) on his reprimand for not showing up, Tony tunes out and thinks about the easy banter Loki and he managed to keep up during their whole breakfast-slash-lunch conversation.


	3. Jotunheim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is music, wooden panel and probably too much off-screen alcohol.

## Darcy

To be honest, Darcy was bound to be biased from the start, so it’s not really _that_ surprising she always tells the story like it had a horrible beginning. (Even if it’s slightly unfair and exaggerated, but people don’t really need to know that.)

 

Just try to understand her: her first contact with Tony Stark was when she told him he’d have to work with the head dancer, Loki Laufeyson, and his first question was ‘ _Loki?_ How many times a day did he get beat up at school?’

It’s not a cool first question to ask about anybody, but Loki and Darcy, well, they’re kind of BFF since they adopted their dogs from the same breeder (Fenrir and Hela are brother and sister, actually) and discovered they have a similar penchant for pranks and other leg-pulling.

 

But enough digression.

 

Suffices to say, Tony Stark didn’t really make a great first impression, and it doesn’t really look like it’s going to progress tonight either, seeing as the first thing Darcy hears when she comes out of the theatre is Loki’s voice calmly saying:

 

“If this is a plot to get in Darcy’s pants, I feel obligated to tell you it won’t work.”

“Please,” Stark answers, “like I only have _her_ pants in mind.”

“Anybody ever told you how cheap you are?”

“Oh I’ve been called worse.”

 

Loki huffs a breath and Darcy watches his lips curl with a barely-there smile draped in careful restraint as he tosses a spit-slick tennis ball across the parking lot for a Great Dane pup to run after. He wears the same comfortable jeans as usual, green v-neck and black leather jacket underlining his well defined (if slimmer than average) chest, his pose confident and at ease next to Stark’s excessively refined suit (he kind of looks like a scruffy banker or something).

The pup trots on wobbly legs up to Loki and Fenrir, and drops the ball into his palm.

 

“Sit,” Loki says, and the puppy does, while Stark scrunches up his nose.

“Did you brainwash my dog, Laufeyson?” He asks. “I’ve been trying to teach him that for months and in barely… what, four hours? He’s at your beck and call.”

“You just don’t know how to ask,” Loki replies easily as he throws the ball at a short distance again. “Dogs like me.”

“Oh, so you’re Dance-With-The-Wolves now?”

“I’ve been called that.”

“You’ve been called a lot of things, apparently.”

“I have multiple names,” Loki agrees with that same repressed smile, “for multiple purposes and circumstances.” He raises his head and the smile he gives to Darcy is more distant, more controlled, safely tucked into a good dose of ‘you’re late’. “Finally, she appears,” Loki mocks. “Darcy, meet Tony and Jarvis. This is Darcy, and the lady at her feet is Hela.”

“Nice to meet you milady,” Tony says, and his eyes are fixed on Hela, Darcy seemingly forgotten.

 

It’s when she sees Loki smile again, that smile he tries to hide but can’t quite succeed to, that she really begins to suspect something.

 

## Loki

Loki smirks at the face Tony pulls when they reach the café.

 

It’s not even that he wants to be mean or anything (it’s not like Tony did anything to deserve his harshness after all) but everyone reacts like this at some point. From the outside, the establishment looks ancient, almost dilapidated: the wooden door is black with traffic and smoker fumes, years of names and phone numbers written with ink and blades. Somewhere under the grime and abuses to the wood, there are traces of old motives: dragons and spears and snakes made of knots and coated with ice and snow, like creatures out of long-forgotten legends captured in the wood, washed out by the hands of those who seek what the place has to offer.

The doorknob in the middle of the panel is large and round, polished by dozens of hands, and every time Loki uses it, it feels warm in his palm, as though trying to make him feel welcome.

 

It was a surprise to him, how much he liked the place from the very first moment he entered it. With its rough wooden panels and thick tables, it looks exactly how you’d expect it judging from the door: ancient and dim with the fumes of human breath rendered heavy by alcohol and too many songs. Loki would never have expected to find something to like in a place that isn’t all sleek surfaces and sharp angles, but somehow, Jotunheim holds something that feels familiar, full of people like him, who feel like they belong nowhere else and find comfort in each others, for lack of a better solution.

Sometimes, when Loki feels especially pathetic (or when he’s gotten drunk with Thor again, because nobody’s perfect and he seems bound to making that particular mistake over and over) he thinks if his life were a story of superheroes, Jotunheim would probably be the evil lair he’d use because nobody welcomed him in their honest home.

 

Loki steps on the stage, limbs thrumming with the thrill of performance, breath quickening in anticipation as he reaches his instrument and settles its neck on his shoulder, bow ready to dance on the strings: it is the closest Loki knows to coming home, the thrill of music pulsing through his veins like magic, making his hair stand and his muscles shiver.

It makes everything else seem unimportant, invisible: when he plays, his troubles vanish, his history stops to exist, and nothing counts aside from the melody, the rhythm a steady heartbeat to accompany his own. Even Odin never managed to break this, the feeling of peace Loki has every time he plays, and god knows Odin has a knack for destroying any satisfaction Loki manages to feel.

 

Usually, by the time Loki starts pinching his cello to match the pace of Erik’s voice, nothing matters, the faces are all a blur and he can’t even tell Darcy apart from anyone (and yet he knows Darcy, she’s been one of his best friends since he met her in dance lessons).

Tonight though, when he lets his gaze roam across the room and glide over what his inebriated mind translates as a sea of faces, one set of features stands out: dark hair that sticks out like a hand just went through it, straight jaw, a goatee framed by deep expression lines carved around the mouth by time, or maybe a life full of strong emotions, with Tony it’s a bit difficult to know.

 

Loki’s eyes lock on Tony’s face like they’ve never locked on any face before and he knows, right then and there, that whatever it is that provoked the change, there is no going back.

 

## Tony

Tony Stark doesn’t know anything about music.

 

Or, well, let’s be precise: he knows enough about it to know that his interest in the field is pretty much limited to the listening part of it. He likes his music blasting through the speakers of his workshop, covering anything that isn’t the hum of machines working or the endless rush of his ideas weaving to put together his latest inventions.

Music, to him, is just that: a shield from anything that could distract him, something that helps him focus and forget what happens outside his workshop and outside his head. He never felt the will to go to any concert before, doesn’t even feel like he’s missing anything by never watching what happens on the scene when he goes to the theatre to work on the costumes. When he is there, the only thing to really catch his attention is the machinery: the smell of oil, the pull of rope, that’s something he understands and relishes, not some people dancing in leggings or anything (the only dance he’s ever been interested in before involves a lovely girl, a pole and very little movement on his part).

 

So in the end, it takes him by surprise when Loki walks on the scene with little to no decorum and still manages to attract every eye in the pub.

Tony isn’t stupid or clueless, he knows most of the customers are regulars (it shows in their postures and their attitudes) and he knows they probably know and like the whole band already, but the fact that Loki comes in first makes it look like he’s the only one pulling all this attention to himself, and Tony is astonished to find himself thinking Loki deserves it.

He isn’t exactly handsome in the classical meaning of it: he lacks the large bulk and prominent jaw that professional models these days seem to like a lot. Yet, in his own way, Loki has something… charming. Something in the way he moves -economical and to the point, discreet yet not unsure, like someone who knows what he can do but doesn’t see the point in showing it off- makes him easy and agreeable to watch.

 

By comparison, the people who come on stage with him –a wiry man with large jaw and too many teeth at the mic’, a bulky giant with tattoos and a white bird for claviers, Darcy and her thick-framed glasses behind the drums- look dimmer, duller, and Tony wonders if the difference in talent is so great even he can see it or if it’s just something about Loki that attracts the eye.

The shark-like man starts to sing, something in heavily German-accented French that starts slow and picks up immediately after, supported by the low sounds of the cello. Loki pinches his strings and sways his hips in harmony with the music, feet tapping on the scene, and Tony feels his own limbs moving to match his.

 

 

“I can’t believe you still live with your father,” Loki says, slightly slurred, when they wind up together at the bar a while later.

“Mansion’s big enough for forty,” Tony scoffs. “He lives in the east wing, I live west, I never see him outside work. It’s like living alone.”

“Eurk,” Loki says as he downs the remnant of his beer. “No house will ever be big enough to contain me and my father alone together.”

“That bad, uh?” Tony says, and signals the bartender for something stronger (if they’re going to talk about family, they’re not going to do it this close to sober).

“Just be thankful you’re an only child,” Loki sighs.

 

The rest of the evening is a blur of martinis and hydromel.


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr.Anthony decides to break his Butler's morning routine.

Robert Clarkston’s mornings were never a varied affair.

 

He has always been a man attached to his routine, and ever since Mr. Stark hired him, he’s known exactly how each and every one of his days should start: wake up at dawn, make sure Mr. Howard’s breakfast is ready, bring it to the study or the bedroom, depending on the mood of the previous day, repeat with every inhabitant and guest by order of importance.

In this respect, Robert’s routine never changed, not even when Mr. Anthony turned sixteen and started bringing girls home: it was a simple matter of adjusting quantities and remembering to always, _always_ knock, because Mr. Anthony is rarely awake when Robert comes in, but when he is… Let’s just say Robert learned his lessons about unforgettable visions and the bendiness of women these days the hard way.

 

Robert always feels tired and kind of awkward when he has to admit that he knows, by now, when to knock and when he wants nothing to do in his young Master’s bedroom.

Snoring ends up uncomfortable (because it feels kind of stalker-ish) but blessedly quick. Silence is the best, as it means everyone is awake and most likely dressed, or on their way to it. Soft voices mean you have to brace yourself for more or less one-sided PDAs, and shrieking means being glad he never got married because _ugh_.

Giggles, moans and groans are, of course, a big, neon-sign No-No.

 

This morning, however, is new.

 

Over the years, Robert has gotten very good at getting his cues from a minute or two listening to the sounds filtering through the (thankfully never soundproofed, bless Mr. Anthony’s fluctuant decency) door. Since the parade started, about fourteen years ago, Robert has had occasions to hear just about every kind of sound coming out of that room, but he must admit the shrill howl of an alarm siren is something he never heard, and never expected to.

 

There’s the sound of something crashing against the wall and then:

 

“What the _Hell_ Stark?”

 

Robert nearly drops his tray, because when he heard Mr. Anthony come home around three this morning, laughing and singing and generally sounding _happy_ for once, Robert expected a lot of things (maybe a girl whose name he would need to remember, who knows!) but certainly not a voice that, for all that it probably sounds light when speaking, is unmistakably masculine.

 

“I _warned_ you not to try and out-drink Ivan! He’s been practically raised on vodka, you still decided to challenge him, you can nurse your hangover on your own.” There is a low rumble that is probably Mr. Anthony’s voice, and then Robert hears: “A super… what? Don’t be ridiculous I just… oh crap, you totally ruined it, and now I can’t find my… DAMNIT JARVIS!”

 

Roberts hears a concerto of grunts, man and pup wrestling for whatever it is (and Robert mentally cheers for the man, because Jarvis has a very annoying and persistent habit of pooping in his shoes) and then Mr. Anthony chuckles.

It isn’t a sound Robert has ever heard before: not the _you’re so stupid_ scoff or the _come into my bed_ kind of dirty drawl, or even the dreaded _my father only remembers me when he needs someone to blame_ broken sound that tries to pass as a chuckle. (Though, to be fair to Mr. Anthony’s acting skills, it’s kind of hard to fool the man who saw to your needs since before you could even toddle.)

No, this one is an honest to goodness _you’re funny_ kind of chuckle, and if the other person in the room wasn’t a male, Robert would even think of it as an _I may consider a second date_ chuckle. Mr. Anthony never made a sound like that before and, for a brief moment, Robert considers just coming in unannounced and seeing who it is that makes his employer so happy, but he is cut in his momentum by the sudden sound of a voice wailing:

 

“We’re dead! We’re dead! We survived but we’re _dead_!”

 

Mr. Anthony starts laughing at the exact same time the other man starts shouting:

 

“FOR GOD’S SAKE JARVIS LET GO NOW!”

 

The pup makes a disappointed sound, to which Robert smiles, and Mr. Anthony calls:

 

“Aw come on, don’t take your frustration out on him, he’s not responsible for your terrible choice in ringtones!”

 

There’s no answer other than the stranger producing an irritated sound just before the wailing stops entirely… and then Robert almost gets his nose broken as the door bursts open and a tall, slim man with a green, spit-stained v-neck and what looks like a wolf on his heel, rushes through the corridor, already fully absorbed in his conversation.

 

Robert doesn’t waste time in watching the stranger make his way down the grand staircase and out of the front door: he comes into the room and sets his tray on the bedside table next to Mr. Anthony, who is sitting on his bed with a frown etched on his face, contemplating a leather jacket that lies abandoned on the floor.

 

“Is everything alright, Mr. Stark?” Roberts asks.

“Yeah.”

 

But Mr. Anthony doesn’t remind Robert that Mr. Stark is his father, and the frown doesn’t come off of his face as he carefully wraps the jacket in a plastic bag and retrieves a dirty tennis ball from under the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't/won't comment on AO3? [Go Anon](http://terresdebrume.tumblr.com/ask) (or not!) on Tumblr.
> 
> Also, if you have questions, you can use the above link, and I'll publish the answers [here](http://terresdebrume.tumblr.com/tagged/Fic%3A-The-Way-It-Goes) for those who are interested :D


	5. A Day In The Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki has an unusual job, and it doesn't mix well with his family life.

## Loki

Unsurprisingly, Odin starts yelling as soon as Loki answers his professional phone.

 

How his father got the number, Loki doesn’t know, but there is a reason his two ringtones are respectively an alarm siren and the wail that had Tony so amused about fifteen seconds ago: whenever Loki doesn’t answer his personal phone in time (and God knows it doesn’t happen often, Loki kind of likes to avoid depressing talk-downs), the second one rings, and that’s the signal for the _real_ fun to start.

 

“Don’t forget about tonight’s diner,” Odin says irritably once he is done berating Loki for not answering his phone (and something about incompetent PAs but Loki learned not to pay attention to that).

“Of course not, father.”

“Good. Your brother has an important announcement for us, and I will not tolerate for you to miss it.” There is a pause as Odin barks something or other at his secretary (fifth of the year, and it’s only March) and then he says: “You know the details.”

“Yes father. Eight o’clock at the Valhalla, like every Sunday for the past twenty six years.”

“Don’t be late.”

 

And the call cuts.

 

“Good to speak to you too,” Loki says, and he wishes he could say it comes out of habit more than real disappointment, but he doesn’t lie to himself (too much).

 

 

Loki sighs and tries to run a hand through his hair, grunting when his finger catch on the curls (people often ask why he slicks his hair back. Answer: curls look nice, but they’re a pain). He takes his keys out from his back pocket, turns them into the lock, goes in, and swears when he shrugs and there is no jacket to hang.

 

“Morning,” Thor mumbles on his way out of the kitchen (it’s past eleven and he’s still in his sleeping pants) “where did you sleep?”

“At a friend’s.”

 

It’s not really a lie, even if it’s not exactly the truth either, but the nuance doesn’t matter because Thor doesn’t push the conversation any further and, as always, Loki wonder if it comes from a respect of his privacy or a simple lack of caring.

(He forces the question out, as always, reminding himself that Thor isn’t Odin, that he _cares_ , however clumsy he is at showing it, and he dives in the shower to drown the wave of anxiety that always comes with this kind of reflections.)

 

Loki comes out of the shower with the impression of being noticeably lighter, and definitely less cranky than when he entered it. He slides into a white shirt, dark grey dress pants and assorted formal shoes. He hesitates for a minute, then decides to forego the suit jacket and puts on his usual anthracite long coat, his favorite scarf draped around his neck.

A quick foray into the kitchen and he retrieves the two rats he left to defrost, making his way to the large glass-case standing against the far wall of the living room (opposite the TV) and tapping the glass three times with his fingernails. Jörmungandr raises his head lazily, and Loki grins, somewhat proud of himself for instilling pavlovian reflex into a python. Fenrir nuzzle at his hand and Loki scratches him distractedly as he dumps the rats next to his most fascinating pet, before straightening and setting his costume back in place.

 

He grabs the first necktie he finds in his closet (they’re all green, anyways) and shoves it down his coat pocket, then turns to Thor:

 

“I’ll be there at half past seven.”

 

Thor looks like he wants to speak, would like to ask where the hell does Loki spends his Sunday lunches now (they used to have it together, before Thor met Jane and before Loki found something else to do but, like so many part of their brotherly relationship, it has faded into the mist of difference and incomprehension and sometimes misplaced resentment, and it’s just one more point on the bullet list of what they don’t talk about).

The question never comes out (they stopped coming out of Thor’s mouth when Loki was thirteen and stopped answering them) and even after all this time, Loki doesn’t know whether he is grateful or furious for that.

 

To be quite honest, he doesn’t really know what to do with his older brother, hasn’t known what to do for a long time ( _since even before he found out_ ).

Of course, he knows Thor loves him, because Thor says so and, cheesy as it is, he just _can’t_ lie to save his life past the tenth beer (and that’s the kind of thing Thor has only ever said in the very rare occasions when he goes further than twenty beers). However, Loki also knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that Thor doesn’t understand him (in his worse days, he thinks he never will) and the gap between those two truths is both amazing and infuriating.

 

The trouble with his family, Loki thinks as his bus drives through the town, is that he never knows where he stands with them.

It’s like dancing to a choreography that isn’t finished, always three steps behind when you think you’ve gotten the hang of it and try to keep ahead of everyone to prove them you’ve got what it takes ( _to do what?_ is a question Loki carefully doesn’t ask himself for fear of the answer, or lack thereof).

It’s a race without a finish line where he is constantly trying to outrun Thor for father’s approval, but never knows whether he is a few yards or a full lap behind his brother… it’s exhausting and depressing and, for a long time ( _until Tony_ ) his Sunday lunches were one of the few occasions where he could pretend he could live up to his ‘family’s’ expectation... because during those times, he has a different family altogether.

 

 

“Just in time,” Raven breathes out when Loki steps out of the bus, fingers digging into the silk of his tie to compensate for Fenrir’s absence. ( _No dog, ever,_ Raven said the first time. _And no dog hair either._ )

“As usual. I see you bought the dress,” Loki says with a nod to the pale blue clothing.

“You were right, it does look good on me,” Raven agrees as she shifts Kurt in a more comfortable position against her hip. “Now let’s go, you’ll tell me about your latest rehearsal on the way.”

 

Initially, Raven wanted Loki to be an engineer, _‘because it sounds more impressive and ‘serious’ to them’_ , but it would have made it difficult to justify the months-long absences that will (hopefully) come with the ballet, and so they settled for professional cello player in a classic orchestra, which makes Loki _‘sound like less of a sissy, and stop looking at me like that, god knows I’m not what they want me to be either!’_

Loki unfolds himself from behind the stirring wheel (too much legs: no car is ever comfortable for him), picks up the customary food basket and bottle of wine, and lets Raven fiddle with his tie, kissing her lightly on the lips with an enamored smile.

 

“And here come the family cook,” Cain says with a wry smile as they come in the large hall of the Xavier mansion.

 

Notice that Cain didn’t say ‘our favorite cook’: it’s not like Raven could be his (or his father’s) favorite anything.

Actually, Raven is a stripper.

It’s not the most orthodox jobs, but it pays well (better than what Loki earned with his first job, and he didn’t exactly start at ground salary) her show is surprisingly tasteful, and it’s more than enough for her to raise her son by herself, like she wants to. However her family –or rather step-family, as her brother apparently refuses to set a foot at the mansion anymore- insisted that she should find a man to provide for her and her kid. At the time, the breakup was still fresh (Loki knows Kurt’s father left her for a guy he worked with) and she thought it would be easier to hire a fake boyfriend than to try and find a real one for her stepfather’s sake.

Loki was finishing his last year of school, fresh out of a part-time job, and very much in need of the generous salary: he volunteered.

 

It’s been three years, and now he does it more for friendship’s sake than anything, even if he has to battle talks of marriage every Sunday lunch.

 

{ooo}

 

Loki kisses Raven’s cheek and exits the car with a smile for Kurt, leaving them to go and see his uncle Charles (who thinks ‘Thomas’ is just a friend who likes to kiss Raven on the mouth and, apparently, doesn’t understand how he is still allowed in his nephew’s house. Raven doesn’t say it, but Loki is fairly sure the guy wishes he could punch him. Loki thinks so long as Charles doesn’t learn about his spending Sunday lunches at the mansion, everything is going to be fine.)

 

{ooo}

 

Nobody is really surprised when Thor uses the gap between main dish and dessert to announce that Jane and him decided to tie the knot: not only is the diamond on her left ring finger a dead giveaway, Loki knows Thor: the man doesn’t do things halfway, and if he’s going to be serious about a girlfriend, he’s going to marry her, simple as that.

Loki claps, congratulate his future in-law with more enthusiasm than what was expected of him (because he’s genuinely grateful said future in-law isn’t Sif) and thinks maybe this week he’ll come out of the Valhalla in a not-depressed mood.

 

(But he should know better by now.)

 

“So,” Jane says with a happy smile as the desserts are ordered, “your turn next! When do we meet your girlfriend?”

 

Now, Loki would like to say that, contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t hate Jane Foster (nor is he, as _some people_ insinuated in the beginning, insanely in love with her and therefore jealous of Thor).

In fact, he can even say without lying that he kind of likes her: she’s got a good heart and a mostly good head (she’s marrying _Thor_ after all) and her presence has made his brother noticeably calmer.

Plus, she does her best to ignore whatever Odin has to say about Loki and form her own opinion on him, which earns her a lot of brownie points.

 

If Loki is to be honest with himself (and he usually is) he must say that he doesn’t exactly make that task easier by spending as little time with Jane as he possibly can. Again, it’s not that he dislikes her, it’s just that time with Jane means time with a Thor immersed in domestic bliss, wanting to spread the love and insisting Loki should _hook up with Marcy… no, Lucy? … Darcy!_ and quite frankly, _urgh_.

(Loki loves Darcy, Darcy is wonderful and the best friend he has, equaled only by Raven and maybe Tony Stark in the future, but Darcy is also very much in a relationship and Loki, having no death wish, doesn’t want to risk upsetting Natasha Romanov by even suggesting anything outside pure and very platonic friendship. Plus, no amount of awesomeness will ever take Darcy’s boobs and vagina away, so.)

 

So, anyways, Loki generally doesn’t hate Jane Foster, except right now he really, really does because no sooner does she end her sentence, Thor turns to him with apparently genuine interest for once (which makes things worse, because it means now Loki can’t even resent him) and asks:

 

“What girlfriend?”

“The one I saw him drive home with,” Jane says, obviously not knowing what she is setting in motion.

“I do hope this isn’t another one of those sluts you seemed to like in high school,” Odin says, and Loki feels his fingers dig in his thigh, because said sluts were actually project partners from his dance club of the time and hearing Odin’s wild theories on his son’s lack of moral was bad enough the first time around, thank you very much.

“Raven isn’t my girlfriend,” Loki answers, teeth gritting with all the things he’s known for years and never said.

“Good,” Odin says, and then he turns to Jane, who looks like she’s like the ground to swallow her (it doesn’t work, Loki tried) “Loki’s morals were practically non-existent at the time, and I do not wish to live through this again.”

 

Loki knows it is a bad idea.

 

I mean, he’s reasonably (more like remarkably) smart and considerably thinner than every other member of his family (even if it shows less in Frigga) and he knows exactly how much boxing trophies Odin won before he retired and went into business instead, so he knows _exactly_ why this is a ( _very_ ) bad idea.

 

In light of this, he really doesn’t know what makes him do it, but suddenly he finds himself giving a dry, humorless chuckle and spits:

 

“Like you’re one to talk about morals.”

 

Obviously, things can only go downhill after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't/won't comment on AO3? [Go Anon](http://terresdebrume.tumblr.com/ask) (or not) and I'll answer you on Tumblr :)


	6. Home with the Starks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony has to suffer family sunday dinners too, and Loki is louder than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who take the time to read this fic, leave kudos or comments, or bookmark it. It means a lot to me, expecially lately because I've been going through a rough patch, and your appreciation never fails to brighten my day. Thank you very much, to all of you!

## Tony

For the record, he blames everything on the alcohol still lingering in his bloodstream.

 

And possibly Loki’s curls, because he’s always had a weakness for curly hair and Loki may be a guy but he’s got the most adorable curls Tony has ever seen, even with the products still valiantly battling to maintain the usual slicked-back look. (And okay, Tony wonders what Loki’s hair looks like when he doesn’t put what must be insane amounts of products in it, but this is completely irrelevant).

Anyway the point is, he blames everything happening today on the hangover he is supposedly used to by now because he drinks too much, from the protest of his skin at the sudden cold (and his instant resentment of whichever of Loki’s contacts has an alarm siren as a ringtone) to the chuckle that drags out of his chest (and its depth, because it’s clearly the remnants of booze that make him overly sensitive, right? Right. Tony sucks at denial.)

 

It’s not his fault, really, that the sight of Loki Laufeyson in sleep-wrinkled jeans, hair half undone, trying to tug his shirt free of Jarvis’ teeth (all the while cursing the loss of his phone, which Tony understands but _alarm siren_ ) is so amusing.

It’s the first time since he stopped spending his nights alone that Tony woke up next to a man and, more importantly, it’s the first time he woke up next to someone he feels like seeing again afterward, all that without even the intervention of sex. (Unless of course they managed to have sex, clean up and get back in their respective pants, but the fact that they reached the bed is impressive enough, going by the state they came back in.)

 

Tony also totally blame the curls for the unexpected sting of disappointment that stabs through his chest when Loki doesn’t answer his jest about the _Incredibles_ , because they’ve known each other for a few months, and it’s more commitment than any other relationship Tony has ever had (except maybe Pepper, but Pepper is a barista he sees about ten minutes a day, not someone who makes him smile and laugh and okay Tony, you’re trying your hand a denial there, you don’t want to start this kind of list right now.)

 

“Fucking typical,” he mutters when the door bangs open and Loki rushes out of his room (he forces himself not to think _out of his life_ because he doesn’t usually drink with Robert near him, but it’s a close call).

 

Tony lets the butler set the food tray down on the bedside table and wonders how the wasted plate (because most of his one-night stands refuse breakfast once they know he won’t be seeing them again) managed to become so irritating between yesterday and now. He picks up the jacket before Jarvis can decide it’s his new chew toy, gets Fenrir’s ball back from under his bed, and then busies himself with the remnant of the phone, waiting for Robert to take his cue and leave.

 

When it doesn’t work, Tony smothers a grunt and, having gathered the discarded electronics, he goes down to his workshop.

 

{ooo}

 

The shrill ring of the phone line forces him to re-emerge from his latest project, and he grunts when the gesture provokes a long chain of popping vertebras. Slowly, methodically, Tony makes everything pop back into place, from neck to back, not forgetting his shoulders and hips. (One of Tony’s weirdest talents is that he can make every articulation in his body pop. _Every one._ )

Then, when he is done and the phone has been ringing for a good ten minutes ( _ah, bad day_ ) he makes his way to the handset and answers with a yawn.

 

“Anthony Howard Stark, when will you learn to answer the phone?” Howard sighs and Tony hears _you’re getting more useless every day_.

 

There is a customary pause, because Tony never answers that one (where would he start? _Whenever you’ll phone to talk to me rather than at me. Whenever I stop liking Iron Maiden better than the sound of your voice. Whenever I start thinking maybe you’ll sound actually disappointed in me rather than unsurprised I can’t do anything well enough. Whenever I don’t feel like I need a drink every time you open your mouth._ Tony shakes his head and pours his third glass of whisky. The clock reads 12:00, one hour after Loki left. This is a Bad Day.) and then Old Man goes on:

 

“Steve and Peggy are joining us today. Don’t show up drunk.”

“Okay.”

 

Tony hangs up the phone, too buzzed to care about Howard’s reaction, and goes back to work to avoid thinking about how his ‘Uncle’ is going to tell them about his friend Bucky’s death.

 

Again.

 

{ooo}

 

It’s not that Tony is (completely) insensitive.

 

It’s really not.

 

But come on, what story keeps being interesting after you’ve heard it every week for the past thirty years? _Exactly._

Which is why Tony’s mind experiences no trouble in drifting away after “So, after that, I decided to follow Peggy’s advice and do something more useful than parading on a stage: I volunteered, and properly this time!”

 

“It wasn’t a walk at the park, let me tell you,” Tony mouths as his gaze wanders over the other patrons in the Valhalla.

 

Actually, Steve’s not really his uncle.

It’s just that Howard and Peggy were good friends even before they went into the army, and when she met Steve Rogers she just couldn’t resist introducing the two. (Which proved a good idea, as it was Steve who prevented Obadiah Stane from sabotaging Howard’s car twenty years ago, but Tony doesn’t like to think about that.)

Steve always says that their friendship started out looking more like a dogfight, but forty years later and they’re sitting at the same restaurant table with the same people (plus Tony and minus Maria) drinking the same drinks and laughing at the same stories.

 

Tony is all for routine, but they’re frankly taking it way too far.

 

It isn’t until they bring the main dish that Tony spots Loki Laufeyson sitting at the Borsons’ table.

Loki looks just about as enthusiastic as Tony is to be here, which denotes a certain familiarity with the whole process. Is it possible that he’s been sitting here all this time and Tony didn’t notice him? (Granted, there used to be two rooms here and the two families use different ones, but still).

Loki is sitting next to a guy who must be Thor Borson, and Tony is neither relieved at this lack of male-to-male-contact-phobia nor frustrated that said male-to-male contact seems to be more than just friendly.

 

Fortunately (Focus Tony! _Denial_.) Thor doesn’t waste much time in draping his arm around the shoulders of a petite brunette, whose face is extremely happy as well as extremely red: probably an engagement or a pregnancy then.

She turns towards Loki and says something that puts a knowing smile on her lips and makes Loki look like he swallowed something rotten.

Tony watches as all the heads around the table turn to Loki, then to Odin, then back to Loki with an air of petrified silence that can only mean something absolutely scandalous has been said, either about Loki’s life or Odin’s.

 

Either way, Tony engineered enough scandals himself (with great help from one Mr. Charles Xavier and his White Witch of a best friend, Miss Emma Frost) that he knows the look of an upcoming shouting fit when he sees one… it therefore causes little surprise to him when Odin starts yelling:

 

“HOW DARE YOU?” Odin roars, and half the other patrons get whiplash as they try to identify whose voice it is. “HOW DARE YOU EXPOSE YOUR MOTHER TO SUCH INDECENCY?”

“EXPOSE HER?” Loki screams, and okay, Tony knows he’s got a good voice, but he didn’t quite expect him to be _louder_ than Odin. “ _I_ EXPOSE HER TO INDECENCY? I’M _SORRY_ , I THOUGHT _YOUR_ HABIT OF SLEEPING WITH EVERYTHING THAT WALKS ON TWO LEGS WOULD BE WHAT WOULD DO THE TRICK! IT’S NOT LIKE _I_ EVER BARGED INTO ONE OF YOUR MEETINGS WITH ENOUGH ALCOHOL IN MY BLOOD TO KNOCK OUT AN ELEPHANT!”

 

Thor looks especially panicked at that last bit of information, and his girlfriend is doing her very best to fusion with the wall behind her, all while Tony leans in his chair out of a perverted desire to know more about Loki even in the middle of what is obviously a Crisis (he wishes it wouldn’t look like he’s succumbing to the same morbid curiosity that makes the other patrons look like they feel so terribly superior to Loki, but he knows it’s a lost cause).

 

“It’s not like _I_ was ever found with my head lying in a puddle of my own vomit after my birthday party!” Loki continues in a quieter but much more threatening tone. “It’s not like _I_ ever came home with blood all over my face with a note from the principal saying that I beat the shit out of a kid _and_ broke a teacher’s nose when they tried to stop me! _I_ never did any of this, and yet _I_ am the indecent one! Or am I so different that I didn’t realize wearing thigh for dance practice is worse than buying my way into alcohol and girls until my boxing career is about to fly out the window? Is that it then? Is it because I dance? Because I don’t look like you? Or is it because for the past twenty six years you resented yourself for not being able to give your wife a second child? _Because no matter how much you claimed to love me, you could never get over the fact that a stranger was mooching off your riches!_ ”

 

In the silence that falls on the room, heavy and life-swallowing with the weight of dozens of skeletons in their closets (and God knows skeletons in the closets come along with the whole ‘rich and powerful’ part) the sickening sound of knuckles meeting a face, the clang of a chair hitting the floor, and Tony discovers what _rage_ really means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't/won't comment on AO3? You can go Anon (or not) [here](http://terresdebrume.tumblr.com/ask) :)


	7. Behind The Curtain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get an external perspective on what happened at the restaurant.

## Heimdal

There’s a clause of confidentiality in his contract.

 

It’s not precisely ordinary for a bartender-slash-bouncer, but then the Valhalla is no ordinary restaurant, and when you have so many rich and famous people coming in the same place at least once a month, with secrets and problems and twisted scheming like the public would never believe, you just teach your personnel to shut up before they can spill their gut to the press and nobody ever wants to set a foot in your restaurant ever again.

 

So, yes, there is a clause of confidentiality in Heimdal’s contract, which is really the only reason why he remains at his post, ever watching and never speaking, instead of going up to those morons and shaking them like olive trees in the collecting season in order to ask them _what the fuck is wrong with you people?_

 

Because, honestly, in all his years here at the Walhalla, Heimdal has seen more scandals than there can ever exist in a paparazzo’s wet dream.

There were small scandals, like Mr. Frost showing up with a very pretty young thing to whom he was very much _not_ married while his wife and daughter healed in the maternity ward, or Mr. Xavier showing up a little drunk once in a while (which didn’t bother anyone because he was cheerful and adorable that way).

And then there were the _true_ scandals, like, borderline _call the cops now or I’ll go stop them myself_ scandals; like that time Charles Xavier showed up all bloody and black eyed and _completely shitfaced_ , and he started threatening the personnel when they suggested taking him back to his stepfather (he was eighteen, and left his home in Westchester two months later). Or even like that _other_ time, when Charles Xavier, Emma Frost and Tony Stark became way too involved and enthusiastic in their antics, and Raven Darkholme, Charles’ little sister, ended up in hospital after she nearly drowned in the fountain (which, incidentally, was removed the following week).

 

All those things were easily predictable, could probably have been averted, if Heimdal or his colleagues were allowed to act like sentient being rather than dummy robots.

But they’re not, and everything Heimdal catalogued over the years, all the hurt, the resentment, the loneliness, the constant craving for attention and affections, the _need_ to be seen, to be heard, to be _acknowledged_ and validated at least in _some_ way, all that he could have explained and showed and used, all this means nothing if Odin can’t see it, and Heimdal is reduced to feeling very frustrated as he listens to Loki screaming himself mute, thinking that the event is, in his opinion, long overdue.

 

What actually _succeeds_ to surprise him though, is that there is movement at the Stark table (a fact underlined by the stillness that fell on the rest of the patrons) and before anybody can really process that a family is breaking apart before their very eyes, Anthony Stark has crossed the room in a few angry strides, and punches Odin Borson right on the nose.

It is not, actually, a very effective punch, and the answer to that gesture sends him rolling on the floor, but it does get the point across in that, apparently, Odin finds it more shocking to punch Tony stark than he finds punching his own son.

 

“Oh my God,” Odin says as he takes in the state Loki is in, “oh my God, what’s wrong with me?”

 

Heimdal sees Tony’s face go from furious to murderous in two seconds (tops) and the younger man all but growls:

 

“Little late to ask yourself that, isn’t it?”

 

Loki’s dog managed to get itself out of the restroom, where he usually spends the evening, and its master opens his eyes once half his face is licked clean. Odin tries to come closer, pale and borderline panicked, but the wolf-like canine growls and snarls, until Tony steps forward and is allowed access.

He hauls Loki to his feet, and the latter practically drapes himself over his shoulder, half unconscious, while his free hand brushes over his dog’s head with trembling finger.

Howard Stark is marching toward them, his gait more hesitant than it usually is, and it certainly plays a role in Tony’s angry outburst:

 

“Fuck off!” He says in a low voice, almost casually and, since today is the day of all miracles, Howard actually listens.

 

Tony takes Loki to the door, hails a cab, and get Loki and his dog inside before Odin lets a soft cry and collapse to the ground, a hand clenched on his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't/won't comment on AO3? Go anon (or not) [here](http://fanfanwrites.tumblr.com), feedback is always appreciated! :)


	8. Scratched Disk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I which Tony drives, Loki cries, and everyone wishes things were different.

## Loki

The first punch he understands.

 

Having your son basically call you a whore and a bastard, can’t possibly be a pleasing experience, and Loki can’t really swear that he wouldn’t have reacted the same way if he’d been in his father’s position. (It’s still better than indifference anyways.)

 

The second punch is harder than it should be in his opinion, but not completely unexpected, as Odin has a thing for doing things symmetrically, which makes it logical that he should do both eyes. (How Loki manages to rationalize this with the pain of a heavy forefinger ring diving in his flesh is beyond him, but at least it keeps his mind focused.)

He starts getting seriously worried at the third punch though, because at this point the room is going blurry, and his lips aren’t as solid as his cheeks, splitting under the flesh-warmed metal of the ring, clashing against his teeth in a head-rattling thud that send stars exploding in his vision.

 

He scrambles backward when Odin closes in on him again, trips on whatever bag or scarf is lying on the floor right now and bangs his ribs on a nearby chair, the crack of it sending a cry right to his throat, where it sticks and stops, choking any protest he could make. Odin looks furious, so furious, more dangerous than he ever looked, even when they were little and watching his earlier fights, which he won with all the strength of his youth and none of the finesse he gained in his later years on the ring.

 

Loki manages to get back to his feet and continues walking away, but Odin lands another punch on his mouth, sends him to the ground again, terrified and helpless, and Loki looks at Thor for help, like he used to do when the jocks became too much for him back in high school, but Thor looks at him with an apology in his eyes and does nothing.

 

Thor just stands there and watches, and Loki almost feels grateful when his lips split again and the room finally vanishes.

## Tony

The ride to Loki’s place is a torture.

 

Not because of the throbbing in his right hand or the sound of Frenrir barking like crazy in the backseat, even though those two things are far from helping. No, what makes the ride, truly, deeply and unbearably horrible is the way Loki has curled into the passenger seat, face pressed into his hands, weighing down heavily on the door handle, and lets out these mangled, wounded cries that tear from his throat like it’s barbed wire pulled out of his veins, pain and anger and betrayal so deep the dancer has obviously forgotten anything that isn’t this.

He cries and cries and cries, and Tony tries to block it out, to keep his attention on the road and not send them to the pavement, but it’s taxing, physically restraining himself from reaching across the car and press Loki to his side, hide him in his arms, between his ribs, until he feels better; and all the while berating himself because _have you looked at yourself Tony?_

 

He’s barely able to take care of himself and yet here he is, trying to be reasonable and not take responsibility for someone else’s wellbeing and feeling like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

 

{ooo}

 

Tony knows he should have brought Loki to the hospital first, he knows it, and he knows it’s not reasonable to bring Loki back to his place instead, but then you wouldn’t have said no either.

 

Not if you’d been in Tony’s shoes, not if you’d seen the fire burning in Loki’s eyes, this desperate, hopeless spark of please, _please, help me_ that thing calling for help even when you’re desperately trying to pretend you don’t need it that Tony has seen so many times in his own mirror.

True, it _is_ something you can put aside and ignore, and do what is the most sensible thing, but sometimes sensible isn’t what people need and Tony, who drinks too much and parties too much and works too much and flirts too much knows very well that sometimes what you really need in the spur of the moment isn’t the most sensible solution but the most _immediate_ one, and okay, it’s not healthy, it’s not good in the long run, but it _works_ and for a while, that’s enough.

 

So Tony drives to Loki to his apartment.

He takes in the old, distinguished building that speaks of old money, the old fashioned lift and its elegant grid, the round doorknobs in the middle of the doors. Tony follows Loki through the corridor of the fourth and last floor, takes in the architecture and its sculpted ceilings, the vast living room that greets him when he steps inside, all in red and gold and honey, pizza boxes forgotten on the coffee table in front of the TV, and thinks of monthly allowance and parental control while Loki shuffles around the apartment and fills a sport bag with clothes and books and dog toys.

 

Tony stays in the hallway, watches Loki pick up bits and pieces of his life, carefully avoiding anything that could be his brother’s (it shows in the way he walks, sidesteps some items and practically caresses others) and when Loki has filled three bags and left specks of blood all through the flat (traces of himself and what happened today left here to haunt the brother who stood motionless while their father punched him into unconsciousness) he goes to the middle of the room, opens the large glass tank and gently coaxes an enormous snake into a pierced and locked plastic box.

 

“You don’t intend to come back,” Tony says, flatly.

 

Loki looks pained by more than his physical wound when he mumbles:

 

“I’m not sure there’s anything left for me to come back to.”

 

Tony takes the bags, follows him out, and doesn’t say anything when Loki doesn’t hand his keys back to the landlady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't/won't comment on AO3? Please leave ffedback [here](http://fanfanwrites.tumblr.com/ask) :D


	9. Through The Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Laufey gets a surprise visit.

## Laufey

His real name is Björn Laufeyson, like his father, but he stopped going by that when he was eleven and his mother died (violence without intention to kill, the tribunal said, but Laufey knew better) and he was placed in the care of social system.

 

He met Fárbauti (Elvira on paper, but like most of the kids Laufey met, she didn’t use her given name anymore) in a police station when he was sixteen and playing with fire.

 

It was love at first sight.

 

Theirs was a messy love story, full of small thieveries, shouting matches and banging doors and urgent make up sex, burning bodies pressing on the wall, the pots-peppered floor, elevator doors and even the back of a confessional once, after their third breakup.

(Laufey’s fairly certain that’s when Loki was conceived, even if Far’ used to insist it was the ball-pit three days later.)

 

At the time he was eighteen, Far’ was seventeen, and neither of them was ready to properly take care of themselves, let alone a kid, not if they wanted him to have a better childhood than theirs at any rate.

So they gave him a name, a blanket embroidered with cartoony snakes, and put him up for adoption, because they thought that was the best gift they could give him (he’s still convinced that was the right decision, even if it didn’t end up as well as it could have for Loki).

 

Fourteen years later, when Helblindy was four and Býleistr was painfully learning to turn from back to stomach, Laufey was more than a little surprised to find a skinny kid with a shiner on his doorstep, asking if he would mind talking for a few minutes.

He remember holding the door open (with his elbow, because he’d been working on one of the tractors’ motor and motor oil on the handle wasn’t something he wanted, what with Hel’ shoving everything into his mouth) letting Loki in, and the boy turning to him and saying:

 

“I just want a quarter of an hour. Thirty minutes, tops, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

 

Twelve years later and Loki still spends most of his Saturdays at the farm.

 

He’s not a very talkative man, Loki. Keeps his secrets close to his chest.

For all that they see each other regularly, Laufey knows precious little about his eldest’s life. He knows he was adopted by a rich family (though more thanks to the clothes he wears and the car he drives than his own confession) that he has a brother (whom he used as an explanation for his black eye on that very first day) and that his adoptive mother has a crippling fear of snakes (as he mentioned when he was sixteen an lamenting the fact that he couldn’t get one before he was out of the house).

 

Laufey also knows his son is gay.

 

It is, actually, one of the very first thing Loki revealed about himself, eyes hard and chin lifted, like a challenge, like he was trying to test Laufey in some odd way… Apparently he passed, otherwise Loki probably wouldn’t have come back after that day, but it still feels weird to think that the kid dared him to say anything about what he was, about who he was, what he chose to do.

There was history there, memories of cutting comments and unmet expectations and dashed hopes, which makes Laufey think that Loki isn’t fully happy in his family, probably isn’t even out to them for fear of their judgment on his sexuality.

 

From the very beginning, it was very clear that Laufey wasn’t allowed to judge Loki’s life.

 

Aside from that, what Laufey knows of Loki is mostly based on what he sees on the farm.

He knows Loki loves music: it showed in the way he clutched his walkman on that first visit, the way his whole body relaxes when there’s music playing, the awed looks he can’t help throwing at Laufey’s record collection, the light skip in his steps that looks like dancing every time he’s happy (about what, Laufey rarely knows, but at least he sees his son being happy and that’s what really matters).

Loki lives in music, loves in music, breathes in music, and there is no doubt to Laufey that Loki’s brain provides him with a permanent soundtrack to his life (how else would he keep humming under his breath all the time, uh?)

 

Laufey also knows Loki is good with pets. Really, he is.

But he’s crap with horses.

He doesn’t know how Loki does it, have the biggest, most aggressive of Laufey’s fourteen dogs eating from his hands in less than an hour, and yet not be able to come near any of the twenty five horses without somehow ending with a not-so-playful nudge shoving him in the walls of the stalls, or teeth biting harder than they should… Loki is the first person Laufey ever had to ban from the stalls, for his own safety.

 

Well, excepting Sleipnir, Svaðilfari’s newest foal, but this one is obviously a cross with a retriever or something.

(No, seriously. Sleipnir comes at a gesture, sits on command and  _fetches_. Helblindy calls him the fifteenth dog.)

 

Aside from the horses, everybody on the farm loves Loki.

Far’ teaches him to cook and take artsy photos, and she plays the piano to accompany his cello or his dancing (most of the time, it ends up being a music lesson for her, because much as she loves playing, she never had the occasion to learn properly) and she hugs him even (and maybe especially) when she knows it’ll embarrass him.

Hel’ likes to go to him for his chemistry homework because, surprise, Loki is actually really good at this, and he never misses an occasion to help his future scientist of a brother.

By’ actually looks at his face, which means a lot.

 

As for Laufey himself well… he gets along with Loki.

They have this sort of instant connection that links people whose nature finds an echo in each other’s: they have the same crooked smile, the same will to reach for more, better, higher. They have this powerful thing between them that allows them to accept their differences easily and feel richer because of it instead of considering them a barrier.

This is also the reason why Laufey knows exactly what goes on in Loki’s head every time they have a kind of father-son moment (when they laugh at the same joke, compliment Far’s cooking at the same moment, when she points out how similar they are, how they enjoy each other’s company) and Loki looks away, nostalgic and wistful and guilty.

 

 

To be honest though, Laufey doesn’t need this special bond with Loki to know something is wrong when he hears Far’ swearing hard enough to make a sailor blush from the kitchen.

 

“What the fu—” he starts to say, but then he reaches the front door and Loki’s there, at nearly midnight on a Sunday night.

 

He is out of the house in an instant, hooking Loki’s arm around his neck to relieve some weight from the stranger supporting him, and together they bring him to the kitchen. He hears Far ushering one of the boys back to bed, before she comes into the kitchen, kneels in front of Loki and asks in all seriousness:

 

“Do I need to go kick some ass?”

 

Loki shakes his head slowly, drunkenly, and he ends up resting his cheek against the other man’s hip, tired and drugged and on the verge of fainting, but he doesn’t say a word.

 

“He can’t speak ma’am,” the stranger says when Far’ looks ready to ask again. “Doctor’s orders. Can’t pull the stitches.”

 

That’s when Laufey notices them: four on each lip, almost regular and even spaced, brown with dried blood Loki must have spilt on the way there. His designer shirt is useless, soaked in blood and torn at the rib, even if Loki (thankfully) doesn’t present any sign of serious injury there.

They stand in silence in the kitchen while Far’ checks her son’s injury, calm and practiced from all the times she did that with Laufey when they were younger, but there’s an anger here that didn’t exist back when they were the ones getting beaten; an anger that Laufey feels too as he thinks it is his blood that stands here, his kid, even if he’s only there one day a week, and his hand grip the back of a chair hard enough to make his fingers tremble.

 

“He said he’d have a room?” The stranger says before Farbauti is done, and Laufey only now sees the dark circles under his eyes, the brace on his nose, the blood on his shirt. There’s tiredness here, born of more than time and staying up late, and Laufey gently pulls his wife up.

“In the attic, the door on the right.”

 

The guy nods, forces Loki upright and, when it appears he won’t be able to walk on his own, switches to carrying him bridal style, despite the obvious strain it puts on his muscles.

 

“What’s your name?” Far’ asks.

“Tony. Stark.”

“Well Tony Stark, I expect you to tell me what happened to m— to _him_ before you can get any rest.”

 

Stark’s face goes solemn and he nods before following Laufey through the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't/won't comment on AO3? Leave your feedback [here](http://fanfanwrites.tumblr.com/ask) :D


	10. Pas De Deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is progress... and then it kind of goes south.

## Loki

His eyes open on the slanted ceiling of the bedroom that has been his for more than a decade now, the skin on his face too hot and too tight despite the painkillers, his mind murky and heavy like a blanket trying to pull him back into unconsciousness, but every time he gets close to it, Loki’s thoughts go back to Thor, Thor, Thor, always _Thor._

His phone is vibrating on the bedside table, pictures of a younger (nicer, more caring) brother spreading on the screen, and it makes him want to kick and punch and scream until he can’t use his throat anymore because it hurts _oh so_ _fucking much_, but his lips refuse to open and his throat is too tight and his heart is too big, and how dare he, how _dare_ he, how dare _he_ do that to him, how dare _he_ stand there and watch him crumble and not do _anything_?

 

Once upon a time, they were brothers.

Maybe the formula would sound strange to anyone else’s ears, maybe it is slightly over-dramatic, but how can Loki _not_ use it? How can he not, when the _one_ mantra he clung to for most of his life just failed spectacularly?

 _Thor cares_ Loki used to think. _He doesn’t know how to show it but he cares_. And yet there he was, watching Odin beat Loki’s face to a pulp and not doing anything to stop it.

It used to be that the two of them were brothers.

It used to be that it was Thor and Loki, LokiandThor, brothers extraordinaire and inseparable pranksters, just them against the world, and that used to be enough back then, back when they were kids, back before they started realizing they were different and it started to _count_.

 

Loki feels his throat tighten even more than it already has, takes a deep, wet breath that ends on a sob, digs his fingers in Fenris’ fur and buries his face in the dog’s neck, stitches be damned, because it hurts too much. He’s taken many hits over the years, big and small alike, and he’s gotten pretty good at brushing aside anything Odin threw his way, but this is _too much_.

 

After a while, when he can finally breathe as normally as his cracked ribs allow him to, Loki runs his hands on Fenris’ back a couple of times, and then he gets up. He puts on a pair of sweatpants he usually keeps in the closet, runs a hand through his messy, half-slicked back hair and walks to the stairs leading to the first floor.

They’re this kind of hidden stairs you have to pull out of the ceiling with a string, and they used to be a pain to take out at night, but he’s always had fun walking on them and take them back out in the mornings (they’re not supposed to do that, it’s dangerous, but the system is kind of old and he kind of forgets –hum- to mention it to Farbauti all the time, and Fenris knows not to get near the stairs without him anyway). He doesn’t do it this time though, because it’s a noisy way to take them out and the clock read 3:00am, and he doesn’t want any company right now. So he motions for his dog to stay put (he’s got water and food, no reason for him to panic) then leaves his attic and closes the access behind him.

The farm is old and noisy, creaking and sighing and grunting at every move, and Loki knows by now that if he doesn’t want to wake everyone up he needs to slide down the banister, so he does. A couple of barefooted steps on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, and he reaches the art wing.

 

The art wing is, in all actuality, a pompous name for what used to be a barn attached to the house that Laufey and Farbauti transformed into a dance room for Loki’s twenty first birthday.

The left hand wall is covered in mirrors and a dancing bar while the right hand one is painted white with a line made of abstract arabesques in various shades of green running at chest height. Loki and Laufey were the ones who put them here, following Farbauti’s design, and Loki loves them, thinks they looks like spells weaving through the room, and though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone ever, he likes to pretend to himself that he sees them move when he dances and that they take his worries away.

The floor is made of hardwood, clean and even, and then at the back of the room (the best lit portion because it receives crossed light from most of the windows) there is a small stage that houses Farbauti’s old piano and Loki’s spare cello.

 

Loki shouldn’t be dancing right now. He knows this very well, because you just don’t dance with cracked ribs and mostly not-there equilibrium and a head swimming with too much hurt and painkillers and anger and betrayal and _Tony, I should get Tony, except I’m not sure if I want to see him or a substitute for Thor_ , so he shoves it down and turns the music on.

 

I’m fine, he thinks as Prokoviev’s _Peter and the Wolf_ drifts in the air.

I’m _fine_ he thinks again as he slips into first position, one hand on the bar, back straight but not rigid, like he was taught back when he was seven and just coming out of three full months of alternative sulking and cajoling and begging Odin to be allowed dance lessons. (He remembers being the only boy in a class full of five years old girls, and he remembers Thor teasing him and saying he was a girl too now, and he remembers Frigga stopping him and saying he was very elegant in his dancing attire, and then he remembers Odin’s face, with the slightest hint of contempt when Loki said he was the best in his class, as if the former boxer had been thinking _well, you’re beating girls two years younger than you are, of course you’re the best_) and it _doesn’t_ hurt, it _doesn’t_ because Loki’s _fine_ , he’s _perfectly_ fine, thank you very much!

 

 

Except he’s not, and he collapses on the floor, trying not to make a sound even though he knows between the soundproofing and the music, no one can possibly hear him.

# Tony

He has to make another trip to the car in order to retrieve Loki’s snake, and when he puts the box in the corner or the living room, closest to the heater, he sees Laufey watching him with a look that says he knows Loki won’t go back to his apartment anytime soon.

 

He expects to be submitted to a full on interrogation when he comes back to the kitchen.

Instead of that, he finds Laufey and Farbauti waiting for him with a beer –which he takes despite being certain it won’t help his burgeoning headache- and the tired expressions of those who know they can’t do much to change a situation.

 

“I didn’t even know he was adopted,” Tony says after the too-long silence starts getting awkward. “He just goes by Laufeyson at work, and it’s not like he talks about his life a lot.

“Loki was always very discreet,” Farbauti says, a little sadly, and she wraps her fingers around the hand Laufey laid on her shoulder. “Even we barely know anything about his family life. You have to understand that we were very young when he was born, not even nineteen, and we weren’t… weren’t exactly model kids.” She sighs. “When he popped up on our doorstep fourteen years later we were just too happy to see him to ask any question and then… well. The rules were set.”

 

There is more than a little Loki in the way she just shrugs off the nostalgia trying to creep on her face and soldiers on:

 

“My point is, as of right now, you’re probably the one person who knows the most about Loki. I’m not going to ask you to tell me what you know. Much as I want to, this isn’t something I can do. I just… please keep being his friend. And take care of him.”

 

There’s something… not tragic, but almost, in the way Laufey and Farbauti look at Tony, quietly resigned to not being Loki’s first family, still convinced they made the right choice by giving him up but also kind of wishing they could have kept him, protected him.

Tony kind of envies Loki for that.

 

Still, he nearly snorts at Farbauti’s request.

I mean look at his life: past thirty and still living with his father –granted, he didn’t lie when he told Loki he never saw him, but that’s a matter of principles.

Besides, what’s he supposed to do for Loki? Give him some advice? Protect him? Tony never learned to fight properly, and even if he had, he would be no match to Odin Borson. As for advice, one look at his own life will tell you all you need to know about that idea.

Still, Tony finds himself wanting to stay in Loki’s life, even if it’s just to be there when he needs a drive to the hospital.

 

This time he doesn’t even bother making excuses as to why.

 

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

“Thank you,” Laufey sighs, relieved. “Now, off to bed.”

 

And Tony, exhausted as he is, doesn’t even protest at being sent to sleep like a little boy, opting to go and crash in the guest bedroom instead.

 

{ooo}

 

He wakes up earlier than morally acceptable the next morning, stirred awake by the sounds of Helblindy getting ready for school.

 

Tony listens as the teens shuffles around in his room, grabs something or other and finally thunders down the stairs, bang the door closed and runs, probably to catch his bus.

He waits until he is certain the kid won’t come back to get something he’s forgotten, then painfully gets out of the bed, blood pulsing in his broken nose in that weird way he just _hates_. Loki’s stairs are up when he comes out of the room with only his suit pants and wife-beater to cover him, and Tony debates going to check on him, but decides against it. From what he remembers, the stairs creak when they go down, and even if he manages to get them open without waking Loki up, then what? Stand in the narrow corridor until the door opens?

 

He goes to the kitchen.

 

There’s a note on the fridge that begins with Tony’s name written in high, blocky letters in crayons, followed by a more ordinary but equally messy handwriting in red pen:

 

“ _House empty till 8:00pm, ask Loki to show you around, or feel free to visit, but stay clear of my room. Grab whatever you want for breakfast._ ”

 

Tony nods, pours himself a mug of coffee and, since he’s never hungry in the morning anyway, he decides to start exploring the house a little.

There is a green door on the far side of the kitchen from the living room, and Tony decides to start with this one, attracted by a color he can’t help associating with Loki.

 

When he opens it, he is greeted by the blasting sound of a cello, melancholic and familiar, even if he’s totally unable to put a name on the melody. This isn’t what catches his attention though, and he is at Loki’s side in a blink, barely pausing long enough to turn the music off before he kneels next to the other man, who lies face first against the cold floor.

 

“Loki,” he says urgently, shaking the dancer’s shoulder, “Hey, Loki, come on, answer me. Loki, wake up damnit!”

 

Loki grunts, puts a hand to his head and winces when he pulls on his stitches by trying to talk.

 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t talk. Damnit, don’t frighten me like that man! What happened? Did you faint?”

 

Loki shakes his head, then makes several gestures that Tony takes longer than it should to recognize as sign language.

 

“Sorry, I can’t read signs,” he says as he seats down next to Loki. “Are you hurt? Any more than you were yesterday, I mean?” Loki shakes his head to say no, but his neck is stiff and his shoulders are tense. “Fuck, Loki you’re freezing! Come on, let’s get you to bed, uh? Then I’ll find you something to write on and we’ll talk.”

 

{ooo}

 

In the end though, they don’t really talk.

 

Tony gets Loki back to his bed as planned, though with much less carrying involved than yesterday night, and they end up sitting on side by side, Loki under the covers and Tony above them, Fenrir lying down next to their feet, wagging his tail happily every time Loki deigns to give him a belly rub.

 

“I get it, you know,” Tony says quietly in the darkness created by the closed blinds. “I mean, not the sibling thing, obviously… but the thing with your father? I know how _that_ goes.”

 

He feels Loki move in the bed next to him, and then a head comes to rest on his shoulder, and Tony sighs, soft and compassionate and so, so tired of all this shit.

 

“I wish I could abduct you,” he whispers. “I don’t know where I’d take us but. You know. Just so we could go away for a few hours.”

 

Tony feels something wet on his shoulder just as Loki’s breathing grows shallower, like he’d like to take in more air but he just can’t, and the engineer turned costume designer worries that he’s said the wrong thing… again.

 

“Hey, look, sorry, I didn’t mean to….”

 

To be honest, a finger to his lips generally isn’t enough to shut him up, unless you apply a lot of pressure. Generally though, there is nobody who needs to shut him up this way, because his friends only tell him to, and his hookups don’t really need to, seeing as he doesn’t really talk to them in the first place.

All in all, this is a first for him, to –allow himself to- be stopped mid sentence –mid _apology_ , even. Do you know how often Tony apologizes? Because if you knew, you would relish it, not try to stop him- by someone who is either not mad at him, or makes a very good job of hiding it.

 

He feels Loki shifting on the mattress, sees the outline of his silhouette move in the shadows, and doesn’t resist when hands close over his own to bring his fingers against the shape of his lips. Tony lets them hover here, almost caressing as he feels the stitches under his skin, stretched against Loki’s face where he’s repressing a smile.

Loki uses his free hand to trace letters across Tony’s chest, something that feels a lot like ‘thank you’, and Tony frames his face with his hands, runs the flesh of his thumb over the sharp cheekbones and, sure enough, there is the wet trace of tears.

 

A hand gets lost in his hair, comes to rest at the base of his neck, and Loki uses it to bring their foreheads together, their noses touching, his breath ghosting over Tony’s lips, and it suddenly occurs to him that this is basically the most intimate, hottest thing he’s ever lived, and they haven’t even kissed.

 

The thought is terrifying, and he clears his throat as loud as he can, shifts out of Loki’s hold and throws his feet to the floor before he’s had time to reconsider his actions, heart hammering in his chest as he tries to figure out a way to hide his erection without giving himself away.

 

“I uh… I need to go get Jarvis. And a hotel room,” he adds after a moment of consideration. “I don’t think I’ll go back there anytime soon either.”

 

He can’t be one hundred per cent certain that he hasn’t imagined Loki’s intake of breath as he makes his way through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't/won't comment on AO3? Leave your feedback [here](http://fanfanwrites.tumblr.com) :D


	11. For All Of The Things We're Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thor is not happy about himself and Loki needs fresh air.

# Thor

 

 

Thor snatches his phone from Frigga’s fingers before he’s had time to process what he’s doing but it’s too late, she’s already looking at him with _that_ look, the betrayed one Thor hates because for most of his childhood that meant _you have made Loki cry, go and apologize or I will stop to love you until diner_ (and a ban on poptarts whenever he failed to obey in reasonable delays. Horrible face.)

 

He looks at the ground, the door, the window… anywhere but at his mother, pale and tired in a way she never seemed to be before as she sits next to Odin’s bed in the small hospital room. Anywhere but the white face of the man he loves more than any other save Loki, whom he watched beat his little brother to a pulp without lifting a finger.

Anywhere but at the father who lied to him for years and still had enough self-righteous anger in him to try and force Loki to adopt his own moral values.

 

“It wasn’t like that,” Frigga says, and Thor realizes he spoke aloud.

He wishes she would just shut up. “Your father didn’t cheat on me. Not really. We’ve always been doing that, and I knew….”

“I don’t care,” Thor forces out, not bothering to sort out whether he really means it or if he just doesn’t want to hear. “I don’t care. Whatever happened between you two, whatever he did or did not do, he had no right to do that to Loki.”

 

He pauses, long and awkward and ugly, and adds in a barely there whisper:

 

“I had no right to _let him_.”

 

He wants to leave. Wants to be anywhere but here, anywhere but trapped into a room with a man he wants to scream, and kick, and spit at, anywhere but a place that won’t let him forget what a piece of shit brother he’s been tonight.

 

Anywhere but in a place where he has nothing to do but relive his childhood, his teenage years, and stare in horror at the hundreds little things he thought of as harmless jokes, but that turned out to be far more harmful than he ever intended.

 

He leaves the room, and tries to call Loki.

# Loki

After a long while spent staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, wondering what exactly just happened, Loki finally falls asleep.

It isn’t a restful sleep, and he wakes up cramped and tired, confusing dreams still whispering in his ears as he rolls to his side and squishes Fenris to his chest, wishing he could just decide to burry himself under the covers and never come back out again.

 

Life, unfortunately, doesn’t work this way, and Fenris is a wonderful dog, but even he won’t just stay unmoving for hours on end, especially since Loki hasn’t walked him since yesterday night, and the fact that he’s still behaving is a testimony to his good education. Loki picks his dog up and takes him to the first floor, where he stops in the bathroom.

 

Pale is always an accurate word to describe him, of that Loki has been made aware by countless jibes during endless summers in secondary residence or beach resorts, and he’s made his peace with it since his spectacular growth spurt at fifteen and the apparition of the tall dark and handsome effect. Still, as he watches his reflection stare at him in the mirror, he wishes he didn’t look so much like a corpse.

The stark blackness of his stitches makes it look like his mouth was sewn shut, and he wants to rip them out, wants to forget any of this ever happened. Instead, he pokes at the dark circles under his eyes and makes a mental note to borrow some make up from Darcy… they’ve been exchanging their stuff for years anyway, it’s not like she’ll start minding now.

 

And yes, Loki realizes that dark circles are a very vain thing to focus on, but what is he supposed to do?

Sit in the dark on his bed and wonder if he did something wrong? Wonder if, maybe, Tony has finally realized what kind of crazy he’s getting into? (Because, you know, there’s a reason why none of Loki’s friends know any of his families. As much as he loves both, he’s intelligent enough to realize that both are terrifying in their own right.)

The only thing he can think of that would be _worse_ than that, would be to check the eleven text messages Thor sent him during the night.

 

He bangs the door on his way out.

 

“Dude!” Helblindy calls out from downstairs, “Did you fall or something?”

 

Loki punches the door twice, long practiced signal for ‘no’ and takes a great pleasure in storming down the stairs and to the main door.

 

“Okay, I’ll tell mom and dad not to wait on you for diner then!”

 

Loki barely bothers to wave his hand in the universal gesture for ‘whatever’ and he has to bite back a curse when he realizes he doesn’t have a car near at hand. He brings a hand to his face, only to remember the stitches depriving him of speech, and curses internally when he realizes it means he can’t even call for a taxi.

He _could_ ask Hel for a ride, but he’d really rather be alone right now, not with a kid who, for all that they share DNA and Hel is more mature than most boys his age, wouldn’t understand how fucked up Loki’s life –lives- is at the moment.

 

In the end, Loki does swear, hands moving with the bold and harsh movements of a shout, and he goes to the shed housing the saddles. He needs to go away now, needs to have silence to clear his head, and if he can’t go in town to see Darcy, he can at least get out of the house.

He gets a bite on the shoulder from [Svaðilfari](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sva%C3%B0ilfari), but it’s nothing he isn’t used to, and it takes him less time than usual before he gets Sleipnir out and rides into the fields surrounding the farm at a slow pace, ribs aching from the effort but mind slightly calmer for it.

 

He doesn’t know what to think about Tony’s behavior.

Hell, he doesn’t know what to think about _his_ behavior! He doesn’t know what it is he wants exactly, because his mind is so full of Thor, Thor, Thor these days, but then earlier this morning, when they were together in on the bed it was… nice. More than nice, actually. More like, really, really hot, but not necessarily in a sexual way, more like… intimate.

 

Loki doesn’t deal very well with intimacy.

Thor never really understood the meaning of the word, mistaking cuddles for choke-Loki time, and even Frigga wasn’t a very tactile person. Odin doesn’t even deserve to appear on this list.

Laufey and Farbauti hug him, but they’re not really intimate hugs. It’s a tight squeeze that ends up in Farbauti getting up to serve him some Irish coffee, or a one-armed move that leaves him with Laufey’s hand messing his hair, or Hel telling him to keep that to himself _‘cause I got a reputation to maintain_.

He will admit, there’s Ivan, sometimes, but then it’s more of a comfort blanket for Ivan, as too many people in his life thought that being asexual meant you didn’t want physical contact… so once it was established between the four of them that Ivan wouldn’t be having sex with anybody anytime soon and that dating wasn’t an option either because Darcy is _definitely_ into girls, Ivan took to using them as cuddly toys. Which Loki doesn’t mind, it’s just that it doesn’t count as real intimacy to him, because when it’s his turn to be Ivan’s pillow, he feels mostly awkward and uncomfortable in that very base ‘your hair is in my face and your breath is too hot’ way.

 

There was _one_ person Loki was ever intimate with, so much so that he seriously considered coming out to Odin and Thor and Frigga for him.

Of course, that flew out the window when he went to announce his decision and found Victor in bed and very enthusiastically naked with his colleague Susan.  
(She rang him afterward, saying she didn’t know, and nothing would have happened if she had, but the wound was there already and it’s never helped Loki feel any better about this.)

 

So no, Loki doesn’t really do intimacy, which is why what happened this morning is so unsettling.

Because he never realized he’s gone that far in regard to Tony. Because he spends his time thinking about Thor and he’s still not sure he’s not treating Tony like a substitute for his brother with a splash of sick brother-on-brother action thrown in the middle –and with how screwed up he’s been lately, that wouldn’t even be impossible.

 

Because if it’s really Tony he wants, and he finally gets him, and he opens up and makes a place in his lives for him, who’s to say he won’t disappear like everyone else?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't/won't comment on AO3? Leave feedback [here](http://fanfanwrites.tumblr.com/ask) :D


	12. Lighthouse in the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything changes and it's scary, but there are also positive things coming out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I don't say it half as much as I should, but I am deeplys grateful for every hit, kudo and comment this story has gotten so far. Thank you so much to all of you for reading my silliness and for bearing with me when I take ages to answer your comments. <3

# Tony

He doesn’t leave the hotel for the next three weeks.

 

Well, obviously he goes to work, both at the company and at the theater, but he keeps to himself in both places, strictly respecting his hours and making sure not to make any more eye contact than absolutely necessary.

Loki doesn’t come.

He hears Darcy talk about him, several times. He knows when his stitches are removed, and when his ribs are deemed good enough that he can start dancing again, but he never sees him himself.

 

Tony tries to move on. He buys himself a penthouse closer to the artists’ town, among the theaters and cinemas, because he can and he finds himself liking the idea. He signs papers too, a lot of it, because Loki isn’t the only one who wanted to break off with his life after the restaurant, and he likes theatrical props enough that he thinks he can spend the rest of his life creating machinery for them. Of course, that means accepting that he will probably have to live like the regular rich guy for a few months or years, instead of the usual billionaire lifestyle, but he’s pretty sure he can survive it without problem. He decides to get Pepper to work for his new enterprise, and feels kind of surprised when she says yes. Apparently, working as a barista in a coffee shop wasn’t really her thing.

 

Which is how a month later, Tony comes back to the theater as a new business man with –finally- his own place to live in, to find the stage horribly silent, save the sounds of someone sobbing.  
Tony frowns, instruct Jarvis to sit by the door, and walks to the center of the stage, where Loki is hugging the giant blonde that Tony identifies as his brother.

 

“Thank you,” the blonde says after a while, wiping tears from his eyes. “I should let you go back to work now….” His voice trails off, like there is something he wants to say but doesn’t dare to.

 

There is silence for a couple of seconds, and then Loki sighs and says:

 

“I’ll come see you and Jane later this week. Get some rest, brother.”

 

The change in the other man’s face is so intense, Tony almost feels like smiling. Then the blonde leaves, and Loki’s face closes as soon as the door clicks shut. He takes a deep breath and rubs his hands against his upper arms, in a gesture that is maybe supposed to be comforting, or maybe to warm him up. Either way, he looks better than he did last time Tony saw him, more alive, even if his cheeks have hollowed out.

Loki turns to the side of the stage and addresses Coulson:

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think….”

“It’s okay,” Phil says. “Everybody go home, you get a free night, but I want everyone back in working shape tomorrow. We don’t have time for more, Loki.”

 

Loki nods, and Tony waits until most of the dancers have left the room to go where their star is gathering his belongings, Fenris’ head occasionally nudging at his knees.

 

“Loki,” he starts, unsure of his welcome.

“Go away,” Loki says, and Tony sees a hand flash toward his face, the glistening of tears lingering on his wrist afterward.

“Loki, what happened?” Tony asks, because even if it took him a month to get his shit together and sort this out in his own head, he know what he want now, and he’s not about to let it go without at least trying.

“Go _away_ Stark,” Loki says, and Tony flinches because of it. Loki stopped using his family name a while ago, now, or so Tony thought. “I don’t want to deal with you now I just—fuck!”

 

Tony sees him rub at his eyes as his voice cracks on the last word, and it’s like breaking a dam open, something that comes out as a quiet but sharp breath in, the discreet sound of a sniffle.

 

“Hey, Laufeyson,” another dancer –Barton, Tony thinks- asks from the other side of the stage, “You gonna be okay?” And it’s Tony who turns to call out:

“Yeah, don’t worry, I got him.”

 

The man doesn’t look all that convinced, and Tony can’t really blame him for that, but somehow he gets the feeling that Barton’s help would be even less welcomed than his, so he nods toward the door, and the man leaves.

 

“What happened?” Tony repeats, rubbing over Loki’s back. “Look, I know I’ve been AWOL for the past month, and I’m sorry about that I—I needed to do some thinking, and I don’t think I could have helped you at the same time. But I’m here now, and I’d like to help so….”

“I told him I hated him,” Loki says, so quiet and broken Tony almost misses it. “I told him I hated him, and now he’s dead and he’ll never know I lied.”

# Thor

Frigga is here when he pushes the door to the apartment he plans to leave soon.

He would have moved in with Jane anyway, but he can’t bear to stay in here anymore now that all it does is remind him how much he screwed up as a brother and as a human being lately. Jane tells him he didn’t mean to, tells him he’s a good guy, and maybe she’s right.

It doesn’t make him feel any better though.

 

Frigga is sitting on the table that used to support Jörmungandr’s vivarium, and Thor feels a brief flash of anger at her, as though he had any right to judge her. (Yet he does. Oh, he does judge her _so much_.) She rises to meet him and he turns to avoid her hug, avoid the sight of her eyes filling with tears.

He knows –he starts to understand- that Odin probably has the heaviest responsibility in this situation –at least, this is what he needs to believe to keep going- but he knows that Frigga followed him, too. And yes, Odin is dead and Frigga has always been gentle and caring to both her sons, but Thor still resents her.

 

“When are you going to stop trying to make me pay for this?” Frigga asks, her voice strong despite her obvious pain.

“When you start apologizing,” Thor says, and it comes out harsher than he intended.

“Thor, we talked about this, your father….”

“My father was your husband, _not your master_ ,” Thor spits, and it’s venomous, aimed to hurt, aimed to make her feel as bad as he does over what they did to Loki. “I have seen you defy him on many a subject, I have seen you stop talking to him for _days_ over his hours of work, over the way he tried to make our home, and yet _nothing_ ever transpired about how he treated Loki!”

 

Thor rakes his hands through his hair, tries to convince himself to stay calm, to rationalize the situation, but he can’t.

He can’t because he knows he’s been horrible to Loki. He can’t because he never meant to be anything but an ally to his brother. He can’t because he doesn’t care that Loki was adopted, but every time he revisits their childhood, it sounds as though he considered Loki less than a brother even before he knew they didn’t share blood. He can’t because Odin never told them that, because he had double standards and Thor took advantage of them, seeing but not understanding. He can’t because Odin lived a life that was the opposite of what he preached and he lied. He can’t because Odin was cruel to Loki one too many times and it finally made their situation explode, leaving Thor with his world turned upside down, and the impression that he spent all his life destroying the person he loves above any other in his family, and nobody looked or cared enough to warn him against it.

He can’t calm down because Odin created this mess and he is dead, and Thor has no one to demand answers from.

 

He can’t, because he doesn’t know who he hates most between his parents and himself.

 

“You are a strong woman,” Thor says. “You have taught me to be always proud and straight and to fight for what I wanted. You failed to fight for _that_ ,” he adds bitterly, “For Loki’s equality and his well being.”

“So you’re going to just leave me alone then?” Frigga shouts at him, her face red and her eyes shining with tears. “You’re going to leave me to mourn alone? Are you _truly_ going to abandon your _mother_ while she suffers?”

“ _I_ SUFFER TOO!” Thor explodes. “DO YOU THINK I DO NOT? DO YOU THINK _LOKI_ DOESN’T SUFFER? WE. ARE ALL. _SUFFERING_. WE’RE ALL PAYING THE PRICE OF YOUR LIES, OF FATHER’S HYPOCRISY AND OF MY STUPIDITY! DO YOU THINK I KNOW NOT OF IT? DO YOU THINK I DON’T MOURN FOR HIM?” He realizes, dimly, that he is crying by now, voice raw and broken, throat tighter than his fists. “WE _ALL_ HAVE A PART IN THIS! _ALL THE FOUR OF US_ , AND WE ALL SUFFER FOR AND FROM IT! I AM _TRYING_ TO RIGHT WHATEVER IT IS I CAN RIGHT,” Thor adds, his voice hoarse and his breathing heavy. “I AM TRYING TO SHOW LOKI THAT I WILL NOT WASTE A SECOND CHANCE IF HE CHOSES TO GIFT IT TO ME!”

 

Frigga is still straight backed on her seat, refusing to yield even now that it may cost her both her sons. At this moment, Thor cannot think of anyone who would have been a better match for his father, for she is strong even in her tears, dignified in her grief and elegant even in her anger.

Truly, Frigga was the only possible option for Odin.

 

“I am doing whatever I can to get my brother back,” Thor says, low and bitter, and intentionally cruel for the first time in his life. “Now it’s your turn to learn how to grovel.”

 

# Loki

Even through his tears, Loki manages to sit on the edge of the scene without falling or damage his costume, which consists of ordinary pearl-grey tights with black boots figuring the legs… but Tony’s strokes of genius lies in the shirt.

It looks frilly, made of a hundred and some curls of white fabric that make it look like Loki’s feathers are ruffled with excitation, or possibly passion. Then, when he turns from white to black swan, Loki presses a button at the bottom of the hidden zipper, and the thin threads of cable come lose, revealing the black underside, and allowing for him to ‘change’ onstage, in front of the spectators, which coincides marvelously with the revisited choreography.

Loki isn’t about to admit it to anyone, but to wear this to have it under his fingers and close to his hands for a few weeks now, has been his best source of comfort in a long time, like a plush toy or a friend. Sometimes, while wearing his costume, he imagined Tony was standing in the room and watching him dance.

 

He could never imagine his reaction.

 

Still, now he knows Odin is dead, and he knows Thor wants to make things right, and he knows Tony wants to help… he has no idea what he feels about all of this. It seems he is able to feel everything and nothing at the same time, like watching a thunderstorm from behind the windows, and he is afraid of this.

He is afraid that he will get things wrong, afraid that he will mess up. For the first time in his life, it seems to him that every matter is in his own hands, that he must only make a choice instead of struggling for the leavings others deign give him. This is what he has been looking for all his life, really. The freedom, the responsibility, the trust; he has never wanted anything else. To be treated as an equal, as someone whose opinion matters.

Now that he is, he isn’t quite sure what to make of it.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses. “I feel like my head is going to explode and you—you….”

 

 _You weren’t there_ , he wants to say. _You weren’t there when I wanted you to be._ The thought, somehow, feels too big.

He thought he needed Tony. He thought he needed the warmth he provided and the comfort of his friendship. He thought he needed the understanding, the unexpected but unconditional support. He thought he needed all this and more, he thought he needed everything Tony had to offer and beyond, but the truth is a lot scarier than that.

Truly, Loki had all he _needed_ this past month. He had a place to live in and a family to support him. He had a roommate who was truly there for him –and he needs to thank Ivan for his help, really. He had Raven, who endured three more hours of her step family every Sunday for a month just so he could escape his own life. He had Erik, who offered to go with him when he visited Odin despite his hatred of hospital, and he had Charles -Erik’s boyfriend and Raven’s brother- who, once he’d calmed down from finding out who he was, offered all the help he could give –and coming from a psychologist, that meant a _lot_. He had Darcy, too, who got their colleagues to throw him a party when he came back, and even Coulson and Barton, who took it upon themselves to make sure he spent as little time alone as possible. He even had _Thor_ who, although he still has a lot of things to correct, _apologized_ , and truly that was all Loki needed him to do.

 

Loki, he comes to realize, doesn’t _need_ Tony. He is perfectly able to survive without him, he is perfectly able to _function_ without him. Yet, he finds himself not _wanting to_ , and the idea means so much that it brings tears to his eyes again, which he forces himself to blink back.

He can’t do this while crying. He can’t.

 

“What do you want?” he asks, and Tony’s brow furrows again.

“I want to help,” he says. Then, when Loki doesn’t answer, he continues: “I want to be there, if you let me. I know I’m not the kind of guy you’d normally go to for help. I know it, and if you decide you don’t want me by your side I…” his voice cracks then, and Loki remembers a night in his favorite café, a lifetime ago, when he realized he could still pick Tony’s face amongst a crowd while playing.

 

He remembers knowing it was the sign that something changed, without being able to put a name to it, but now he knows, and he _knows_. He knows that it doesn’t matter what Tony is going to say. He knows that it doesn’t matter that he wasn’t there for a month, not because he apologized for it, not because he had his reasons, but because he is here _now_ and it is all that Loki wants of him. He knows all this just as clearly as he knows that he will doubt again, but he is sure one thing: Tony _wants_ to be here.

For now, that is enough, and before Tony can complete his sentence, Loki catches his face in his hands and brings their foreheads together, and Tony falls silent.

 

“The last time we did this,” Loki says, “you ran away.”

“Yes,” Tony admits with shaky breath, “But I won’t run this time.”

“Why?” Let it be known that Loki is genetically unable to let things be simple.

“Because… because I was afraid then,” Tony says, and Loki feels his hands tremble where they settle against his hips. “And I still am.” Their eyes find each others’, and Loki feels like he understands the meaning of gazes locking together better, now. “But I want you. More than I want to feel safe.”

 

Loki didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until all the air goes out of him, soft and sweet like nothing else before and he thinks, _I am going to marry this man_. It’s crazy and unreasonable and weighed down with a thousand _ifs_ and _maybes_ and _probably_ … but then again, when is love ever stable or simple or easy? Loki grins as he brushes a thumb against Tony’s smile, remembering how it ended when he made his vis-à-vis do the same thing a month –an eternity- ago.

Nobody runs this time.

Loki close his eyes, and when he leans in to kiss Tony’s lips, the other man meets him in the middle; and they are both softer than they are used to, careful not to scare the other away, and the kiss feels special, not because of any trick of tongue like it used to be back when Loki was in high school.

What makes it special is that for now, at least, Loki is absolutely convinced he will never want to kiss anyone else in his life.

The doubts will come later, he knows, but it doesn’t matter.

 

They’ll be ready for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't/won't comment on AO3? Please, leave feedback [here](http://fanfanwrites.tumblr.com/ask) :)


	13. What I did for love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some people decide to change, some people hold a hand out, and some other make concessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I am able to post this!  
> This is the last chapter, after that there should only be an epilogue, unless I can't manage to make everything fit in it, in which case I may cut it in two. Anyway! Thanks a lot to everyone who ever read this story, and I hope to see you again <3

# Tony

He flinches when he hears the worrying crack of knuckles against cement wall and Howard looks at him with venom in his eyes.

He thinks it’s ridiculous, really, that he is still afraid of him after all these years when, technically, Howard never raised a hand on him. Still, whatever happens, Tony has never liked the sight of an angry Howard. It’s always been the start of trouble, and the way his father keeps his voice low and rough and dangerous for his next question makes his heart climb up in his throat, his back start to sweat, and he kind of hates himself a little for that.

 

“Are you telling me,” Howard says, “that not only you’ve decided to abandon what we worked for all our lives for the most _ridiculous_ job in existence, save maybe dance itself, but _on top of that_ you’re letting this—this _fairy_ put it up your ass?”

“Actually,” Loki answers without missing a beat, “we’re partial to sixty-nine-ing.”

 

It’s a lie and a shameless one, at that; they haven’t done much more than make out yet, because Loki is apparently a master at the game, and Tony doesn’t feel ready for anything more –how Loki is even willing to wait for him, he has no idea- but the calm with which his boyfriend –oh dear. Can you believe that? _Boyfriend._ Tony is apparently back to thirteen- speaks the lie and the gaping of Howard’s mouth make it more than worth it.

Tony knows he should probably try to make amends. He knows that Loki is afraid that Tony will come to regret parting with his father, particularly in these conditions… and to be truthful, Tony already does. But the thing is, he doesn’t feel like he has a choice.

 

He doesn’t want Howard to die convinced that he hates him, not at all. Only he feels that if he wants to grow up and finally become his own person –and he is past thirty, it’s high time he did- he needs to take his distance from Howard.

It’s not his fault they’re both the all-or-nothing type.

 

 

So here he is, clenching on Loki’s hand while Howard rages on and on and on, questioning his life choices –again- questioning his worth –again- questioning his love.

 

“ _My_ love?” Tony asks, incredulous. “ _I_ love you!” How he can admit it amidst all the anger and the hurt and all the frustration and yearning he built up for the past thirty-odd years, he doesn’t know. He thanks Loki’s hand in his, the reminder that he will not be alone when all of this is done. “I _love_ you, I’ve always had! I spent my entire fucking _life_ trying to do what you wanted me to do, trying to make you proud! And what did I get for my trouble? Barely a glance and never a good word! You never even _looked at me_ when Mom died! It’s not _me_ who doesn’t love you Dad!”

 

And yet. And yet, Tony hesitates. Because what is it he sees in Howard’s eyes if not pain? What is it that makes his brow furrow if not refusal of the situation?

But the instant is fleeting and long gone by the time Tony notices it, smothered under the blank mask of indifference he knows so well, and for the briefest of moments, he considers apologizing, making amends and coming back to his father’s side, his father’s house where he has always been, where he should always be.

 

He looks at Loki.

He could live without him. He could live without his smile, and his eyes, and his lips. He could live without the little groan he makes every time Jarvis and Fenris beg for a walk and he could _definitely_ live without the knowledge that a python will come to live in his house, eventually.

But then Loki looks at him, and he smiles, fingers pressing against the back of Tony’s hand, and he settles back in his own skin. He _can_ go back to what his life was before. He doesn’t want to. So when Howard goes to speak, Tony raises a hand, more sad than angry, and says:

 

“I know what you’re going to say. Leave him or leave you. And I pick him.”

 

He feels kind of proud of the way he doesn’t hesitate, or stumble as they walk out, Jarvis and Fenris at their heel after a mere whistle of Loki’s, both dogs scrambling for a caress of their tall master. (Fenris, who still has the advantage of height, is obviously winning, but that doesn’t mean Jarvis doesn’t try, and Tony chuckles at the sight.)

 

“I always knew you’d be his favorite dad,” Tony says with a smile.

“It’s alright,” Loki answers easily. “I’ll let you have the kids.”

# Thor

Jane couldn’t get out of work today.

 

She tried, she really did, and Thor is grateful for that, but her lab is reducing effectives now and her best chance to keep her job is to put in as much work as she can, show she’s present and motivated and useful. Thor wishes she’d come with him, but Jane’s love for her work, and her determination to never depend on him are things he loves about her, and he doesn’t want to force her to make a choice between him and her career.

 

So he’s alone.

There are a lot of people at Odin’s funerals, but not many who really knew him. They stand here in prim dresses and properly dark suits, and they all look bored and awkward, watching Frigga’s face with feral eyes, trying to spot any sign of deceit in her expression. Thor wishes he could comfort her. He knows, though, that she wouldn’t accept it. She hasn’t wanted anything to do with him since he spat his anger and sorrow at her face two weeks ago, and he hasn’t dared to go against that. He hasn’t dared to risk going back to his former ways.

He wishes getting Loki back didn’t mean losing his mother. He still does his best to rebuild his relationship with Loki, though. Loki, who isn’t here. Loki who, apparently, had to go and see this Stark man’s father.

Loki, who has yet to tell him that he is dating the man.

 

 

His heart is in his throat by the time he has to go up the front and speak. Frigga, of course, was tactful and loving in her eulogy, but what should Thor say? _I loved him and I thought he was the best father in the world until our family blew up in our face._

_He dealt with his career a lot better than he did our family._

_I wish he’d been as good of a father to my brother as he was to me._

His heart stutters. His eyes fill with tears.

 

“Odin… Odin was.” He breathes in. Deep. “Odin was an excellent boxer,” Thor says. He thought it would be best to start with things that wouldn’t make him feel like he’s somehow lying, no matter what he says. “He won quite a lot of competitions, as my mother told you earlier.” People nod, and Thor knows it’s not so much for Frigga’s words as for the way he didn’t stand by her side, while Loki was absent. “He was a most able business man and probably one of the most impressive figure you’ve ever met. I remember, when I was a kid, Loki and I—”

 

His throat stops working.

For a moment, it looks as though he is going to be left alone here, struggling and bleeding openly in front of people who are not all vultures, but none of them are true friends. He can spot Fandral, Sif and Volstagg waiting for him outside –Mother didn’t allow them in. Thor wishes they could be here as he feels tears burn on his cheeks, hears them splatters on the wood of the microphone stand in front of him.

He breathes in, deep and wet with grief, and when he raises his eyes again, Fenris is sitting by the inside door of the crematorium –Odin was fervently atheist- while Loki walks up to him, his satin suit shining black against his long, long legs.

Thor feels his brother slide beside him an take a look at his note –a doodle of children climbing onto a grown man- and sees Loki’s lips curl in the corner of his eyes.

 

“When we were little,” Loki pursues smoothly, “we used to climb on him. He would pick up one of us with each arm, and turn around making airplane noises to make us laugh.” His voice is strong, stable. Thor notices his eyes straying to the windows, where Tony Stark is standing in a dark grey suit. “Odin adopted me when I was but a baby. He gave me a home my parents wouldn’t have been able to give me. He gave me a name, a place to stay, a mother… and he gave me a brother. All the love I have gotten in the early stage of my life, I owe it to him. I know he and I had our different, and we fought quite a lot, but I will always be grateful for the family he gave me.”

 

Thor is in tears now, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. Because it is his father’s funeral, of course, but also because Loki is _here_ by his side, and they are working as a team, as they used to do a long time ago. And no, not everything is fixed, not everything is fine. It will take them a long time before they can work their way through the problems they have.

 

But at least, they are on the right path, and that makes today that tiny bit less gloomy.

# Frigga

It’s been a month since she last saw either of her sons.

 

She has had time to think, and time to grieve. She isn’t at peace with what happened. No matter what, she can never accept that Loki is only a victim in this. She has, however, come to realize that maybe –just maybe- she needs to make some efforts, too.

She doesn’t think she is all to blame, no. But she doesn’t want to lose her sons and, for that, she is willing to say things she doesn’t really believe in. If concession is the price for her boys to remain her boys, well then. She didn’t make her marriage work by taking every problem upfront.

 

She ignores the protests of a good half-row of spectators as she makes her way to her seat, and promises herself to get reacquainted with driving as soon as possible –letting Odin drive her never bothered her, but she’s damned if she’s going to let herself go helpless now that he is gone. _He loved your strong head,_ she tells herself when she feels tears tugging at her throat. _Better make him proud now, woman._

It’s hard though. Harder than it was to marry without her father by her side, harder than losing her first son to a stupid –unfair- case of sudden death of the newborn; harder, even than birthing Thor, and that took about sixty hours of sweating and swearing and suffering –sixteen hours that left her sick and barren, and bedridden for weeks afterwards. It’s harder than any of that, to make herself go on. Most of the time, she feels like her heart has grown teeth and gnaws at her lungs, cold and bitter and angry, like her stomach is filled with so much bile and anger and fear she’s going to drown in it.

Still, she makes herself go on. She never waited for Odin to take her life in her hands, and although she was content to follow him, she will not go so far as to follow him in the grave. She has, after all, still things to do. She thinks one day, she may heal. Maybe she will love again –she doesn’t know. All she knows is, she spent more than thirty years of her life by Odin’s side, working and sweating alongside him to build a life they could be proud of. Sure, they made mistakes, and she knows she will still make some, but what she has she earned, and she will _not_ let anything or anyone destroy it, not even herself.

 

Three rows down, she can make out Thor’s broad shoulders, and Jane’s petite silhouette, her hair rolled up in a French bun. She sees the unruly hair of that man who was at the restaurant that day, and at her husband’s funerals, too. There are others with them: a tall man with black hair and sharp cheekbones, with his wife and two boys who probably aren’t even of age.

Frigga sees them, and yet she doesn’t look.

 

Because on the stage, Loki is dancing.

She hasn’t seen him dance since she went to his first recital in secondary school, and she is startled to see how much he changed. Nothing remains from the awkwardness of his youth, nor the shyness of his moves. He is sure of foot now, tall and proud and beautiful and Frigga thinks of her mother, tall and thin and eve so elegant, who liked ballet above all else and tried to make her like it in vain for twenty-four years. Now, watching her son live and dance and die onstage, free like she has never seen him before, she finds herself understanding what her mother meant when she said dancing sometimes looked like flying. She kind of regrets being so steadfast about her refusal to go to any kind of ballet before: maybe if she had, some of the problems her family has now wouldn’t exist.

Frigga, however, was always headstrong, and never a coward.

 

 

So when the curtain falls and admirers gather at the artists’ entrance, she takes a deep breath, steadies her hands by smoothing down her gowns, and steps up to the tall, tall man with Loki’s lips, and extends a hand.

 

“Mr. Laufeyson?” she asks.

“Yes?” The man looks surprised and, from the corner of her eyes, Frigga sees Thor’s eyes widen, his mouth fall open.

“Good evening, Mr. Laufeyson. I’m Frigga Borson, Loki’s mother.”

 

She doesn’t have her sons back yet, and when she does, they’ll be different, she knows it.

 

Still, she is their mother, and she will be damned if she lets her pride destroy her family.

 

She smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd rather coment anonumously, you can go [here](http://fanfanwrites.tumblr.com/ask)! :)


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people may turn their lives around, but some things never change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I would like to thank each and every person who took time to read, comment or send kudos. Your support and encouragements was what kept me going and allowed me to finish a pieace that has gone way out of hand, considering I wanted it to be short when it started (then again, that seems to be a recurring pattern with me.)
> 
> Thank you so much for folowing this for the past four months <3
> 
> Additionnally, I've been asked if intended to write a sequel or some form of timestamps for this verse, and I will answer honestly that I would like to, but I don't really know where to start. There are so many things that could be said about these character -and not only in regard to Tony or Loki- that I honestly have no idea where to start.  
> So in the end, if I get the right idea, why not? Feel free to try and give me some, at any rate, but I make no promises on that^^
> 
> Once again, thank you all, I love you guys! <3

# Howard

The dogs are barking, running around as a little girl in a white dress tries to grab at their tails.

 

The Utonagans are merely trotting, a courtesy to the paling fur on their backs, but the blue Dane progresses by leaps and bounds, occasionally coming back to headbutt the girl in the chest, making her giggle in a loud, happy fashion. From time to time, she stops and waves at the big blonde man who sits on a bench in his grey suit, his arm around a pregnant brunette –he assumes they are the parents. The girl looks to be… what, six? Maybe seven, but she’s certainly not eight. Her eyes are blue, and her smile is dimpled as she goes to a young man around twenty and takes him by the hand.

The boy is black of hair with reddish-brown eyes, and he looks perplexed but happy to be invited to play with the little girl. Behind him are two other men and a woman –the men look like they’re twenty-five-ish and somewhere around fifty… a brother and a father to the other one, then? The woman is red-haired, her face smooth despite the streaks of paler hair on her head.

 

He makes his way around the park, trying to pass himself off as a random passerby. He still hasn’t made his mind, still doesn’t know what he is going to do. In his pocket, his left hand if curled around a cell phone that has been lying on a workbench for eight years, right next to a leather jacket and an old tennis ball. In his pocket is the most meaningless thing he could find, the most ridiculous pretext he could have to be here, because he doesn’t know how to voice the real reason why he decided to cross half the city on foot _today._

He walks in a wide circle, passing very close to a man in a wheelchair with a blonde woman on his lap. They’re watching a brown-haired woman with a strong jaw sign something, and the blonde woman laughs:

 

“Wait, wait, not so fast! Volstagg! Volstagg, come here, I can’t understand what my girlfriend is saying!”

 

He sees a man with a wide red beard hurrying from where a large white tent has been set, followed by a thin blonde man with a hedgehog-like beard and another one, Asian, who looks like he wants to scowl but can’t. They tug on his memory, vaguely, as if he’s seen them somewhere before… and maybe he has. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know very much, actually.

He’s not sure if it’s tears or sweat tickling at the corner of his eyes as he leaves the path and crosses the grass.

 

He spots a teenager with the blonde woman’s brown eyes scurrying from the tent, and passes by a bulky man covered in tattoos who looks absorbed in a conversation, before he hears it: the sound of someone arguing. The voices, he knows, belong to one of the groom, and someone he has to assume is his mother. He never forgot the sound of that voice. Eight years aren’t nearly enough to make him forget about the man who chose to throw his son’s sexual life in his face.

They haven’t noticed him yet, so he stands there and watches. The man’s face lengthened, he looks fully adult now, and not like an elegant teenager anymore. His hair is slicked back and his suit a pale, pale shade of green that looks almost blue. The woman is as elegant as he remembers it from countless glimpse in the corridors of the Valhalla, her hair done in an old-fashioned way he can’t help but approve, even though it is slightly at odds with her cream-colored gown.

 

“All I’m saying,” she says, “is that having your own children….”

“Oh for the love of—we’ve been over that already! I don’t give a damn about where my kids come from! They’ll be mine and that’s all I’m asking for!”

“Yes but the blood connection….”

“Which we don’t have,” the man says angrily, and that makes his mother close her mouth. “Look” the man says after a beat, looking like the words are torn from his mouth, “I know you’re worried because Charles and Erik had trouble settling with Alex and Scott. Maybe Tony and I will get a kid who’s had issues before, or maybe we’ll get a crack baby, we don’t know yet, but you know what? It can work. We’ll _make it_ work.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” the woman says. “Your father—don’t look at me like that, I will _not_ refer to him as ‘Odin’ when talking to you and you know it!” The man’s mouth twists, as though uncertain of the response he should give to that comment, and his mother continues: “Loki, your father and I thought it would work out seamlessly, and look at what happened!”

“Yes, now I have an example of what not to do.”

“Don’t, Loki. Don’t to that, I’m only trying to help.”

“Yes, by trying to convince me to rent a uterus instead of adopting a kid… which one is the most potentially disturbing, I wonder? Look, no. Tony and I talked about it, and we’re going for adoption, and that’s final.”

 

The woman sighs behind her son, and he decides to step forward, his left hand clenching around the battered cell phone, and the right one digging in the soft package containing a leather jacket and an old tennis ball.

He clears his throat, curses himself for his nerves –it’s not like he’s a young fool anymore, damnit!- and says:

 

“Loki Laufeyson?” He can see the woman’s lips thin, her brow furrow, but the black haired man turns and frowns, trying to identify a face that has taken more than a few wrinkles since he last saw it.

“Yes?”

“I—I think I have something of yours.” He all but shoves the jacket –wrapped in white paper- in the younger man’s hands, and then takes the phone out of his pocket. “This, too.”

 

# Loki

He still feels angry at his mother for her insistence.

Loki doesn’t _want_ to use a surrogate mother. As much as he still resents Odin, nearly ten years after he died, he knows what he owes to adoption. He could have been like Laufey or Farbauti, going from foyers to police stations and get himself neck deep into trouble on a regular basis. He could have been a crack baby, or a thief. He could have grown up in poverty and failed to get out of it, like so many others. Instead of that, he got wealth, comfort, education, safety. He’s been lucky, extremely lucky, and he knows it. He wants to give that to another child. He wants to share.

What’s the use of having a fortune if you’re not going to spend it on your family? After all, Tony’s enterprise is running smoothly now, better than he expected –and he expected it to have work. As for Loki himself, he is in the fullest of his career, his name recognized even beyond the somewhat closed network of ballet dancers and classical musicians… but he is thirty four, and he knows he is getting closer to retirement every day that passes –that’s the price to pay when you pick a profession that relies heavily on physical prowess.

Loki has always wanted children. He knows it’s a risk. He knows there are issues in his families, and he knows he will need to keep himself in check, to make sure he doesn’t reproduce the same patterns with his own children. He knows that there are other lives than his at stake if he fails, but he feels confident that he can avoid this.

After all, he has Tony with him. It counts for something.

 

Still, he is angry at Frigga, and he blames this for the long moment it takes him before he recognizes the man in front of him. His hair has gone completely white now –or maybe he just stopped dying it, who knows. His flesh is starting to sag around his neck, but his back is straight and his eyes are clear… Howard Stark is ageing well, and Loki surprises himself by thinking he hopes to be in as good a shape when he reaches his seventieth birthday.

He looks at the battered cell phone and that, too, takes a moment to come back to him. Right. It’s the phone Tony threw at the wall the first time they shared a bed. (Loki remembers how he loathed having to put his personal and professional contacts in the same phone afterward). And there, in the white package, he can make out the texture of a leather jacket he hasn’t seen or worn in eight years.

All in all, it doesn’t take a genius to know these aren’t the real reason Howard Stark is here.

 

“Tony isn’t here right now,” he says cautiously. “He had to go check something for the fireworks tonight.”

 

It’s Tony who suggested the fireworks, but Loki refused them on the basis that they were too extravagant… it’s Sif who convinced him when she said she’d like to ‘hear’ part of the merriments. (She can’t, off course, she’s been completely deaf since she was born, but she can feel the shockwaves of fireworks, and so Loki yielded.)

 

“Actually,” Howard says, “it’s you I wanted to talk to.”

 

Well, that was unexpected. Loki feels Frigga straighten up behind him, almost bristling, and even after all this time, there is still a part of him that feels cynical at the sight of her trying to protect him. People are weird creatures, he supposes.

Still, he doesn’t think this can go well if she stays, so he turns to her and says:

 

“Mother, would you mind checking in on the cake?”

“Loki I told you, the cake is perfect and—”

“I know,” Loki forces out, because he said no almonds and the cake is lathered in it. “I just need you to make sure it stayed that way.” Frigga gives him a distrustful look, and he has to resist the urge of rolling his eyes. “Please?”

“Fine,” Frigga hisses. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll go.”

 

 _Why did I think letting her organize my wedding was a good idea again?_ Loki wonders. He blames it on their first fight about the best way for him to become a father, and his stupid need to offer an olive branch afterward. _It’s the lesser of two evils,_ he tells himself. _I can concede the wedding if I keep the kids._

God, but families are _exhausting_. (And to think Farbauti still hasn’t unveiled what she prepared for his honeymoon… Loki loves both his mothers, but sometimes he wishes he could just kick them out of his life for a day or two.)

Loki doesn’t bother apologizing to Howard when he turns toward him, focusing on keeping his arms uncrossed instead.

 

“I’m listening,” he says.

“Congratulations,” Howard blurts, and it’s surprising, coming from as composed a man. “And thank you. For sending an invitation my way.”

“My father died before I could try to make peace with him,” Loki says, careful to keep his voice calm, steady. “I figured eight years may be enough for the both of you to have cooled down.”

“Yes,” Howard agrees with a sad twist of lips. “But we’re still as stubborn of before, and I don’t think Tony will be very pleased to hear I was here today.” He chuckles as Loki tilts his head because he’s right: Tony won’t be pleased. “I was hoping… I hoped you might agree to…ah… ease my way back in, maybe?”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Loki says truthfully. Then, when Howard seems to deflate –and with the likeness between him and Tony, the image is downright disturbing, because Tony would _never_ do that in public- Loki adds: “I mean, I love your son, obviously. But he _can_ be a stubborn mule when he wants to.”

“Will you try though?” Howard asks with hope in his eyes.

“I…” Loki spots Frigga coming up behind his guest, Thor and Volstagg trailing after her as she clutches the green and gold leather bound book that Loki and Tony chose as a guestbook (it’s the only thing Laufey kept of his mother, and Loki has always loved it, but Frigga ruled it out on the ground that the colors didn’t fit the color scheme.) “You know what, if you buy me enough time to make an emergency phone call, you have a deal.”

 

Howard nods, and Loki barely has time to register the flirtatious smile the man puts on before he hurries into the tent to borrow Darcy’s cell phone.

 

# Tony

 

Ororo yelps in surprise at his exclamation, and Loki soothes her with a hand on her back. Still, he doesn’t look any better than Tony right now, cheeks flushed with surprise and awkward discomfort.

 

“This is a joke,” Tony says. “Seriously, uncle Steve, tell me they’re joking!”

 

He can feel Thor squirming at his side, as surprised as the rest of the table, while Jane and Farbauti are both doing extremely poor attempts at stifling their laughter –Loki gives them the stinky eye, and Laufey grins at him.

 

“I think it’s a great idea,” Helblindy says from behind his girlfriend Angrboda (Tony has no idea where they get their names, in case you’re wondering).

“I hate you,” Loki retorts, petulant as a child, and Tony can’t help but echo the sentiment. “And it’s only been a year!”

“When you’re as old as us, you won’t want to wait either,” Steve remarks, which doesn’t help Tony, _at all._

“Oh come on,” Peggy says, “It’s not that big a deal!”

“That’s because you’re not the one who’s going to endure the two of them together!” Tony protests.

“Double dose of headaches,” Loki adds, before he turns to his mother: “Seriously though, Mother, _why_?”

“I fell in love, son,” Frigga says, and Loki’s answer comes in a whine:

“Yes but _why_ did you have to fall for my father in law?”

 

Howard guffaws – _guffaws_ , seriously, someone kill Tony now, or at least take his father’s botched clone away because he’s going to die of weird soon anyway- and Loki whimpers.

Tony glares at him.

 

“That,” he hisses, “Is entirely _your_ fault.”

 

Jane and Farbauti burst into laughter, and Loki lets out a pitiful whine.

Tony doesn’t follow him, but it’s a close thing.

 

(The evening ends up in a shouting match, and both Tony and Loki agree that it says something very sad about their lives when it reassures both of them. And besides, as some would say, at least now their families are communicating.

 

Even if Heimdall gives them weird looks from behind the bar.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback, here or [on tumblr](http://fanfanwrites.tumblr.com/ask)! :)


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